Flash Fic Fest
by MizJoely
Summary: Original challenge: give me a pairing and a story title. Now including any flash fics I write on tumblr. These are the Sherlolly ficlets and drabbles with varying ratings. Side pairings will often include Mythea and Warstan.
1. Secret Life of a Promiscuous Pathologist

_A/N: Hey all and welcome to my collected Sherlolly Flash Fic Fest 2017 drabbles and ficlets. For anyone interested, I also have some Mythea fics under the title "Mytheamore", and some other pairings and OT3s that will be posted as soon as I finish writing them. All stories will have various ratings, and the challenge was for folks to send me a pairing and a title. This one was requested by violetjersey._ _Title: The Secret Life Of A Promiscuous Pathologist Ship: Sherlolly._ _Rated T. Enjoy!_

* * *

"She's killing me, John. Absolutely killing me."

John looked at Sherlock quizzically. "How's that, then? And which 'she' are we talking about?"

Sherlock gifted John with a withering 'don't be an idiot' glare. "Molly. Hooper," he replied, enunciating each syllable with icy precision. "Her and her endless list of sexual conquests."

John's expression morphed from quizzical to confounded, his usual range of expressions when Sherlock talked about Things He Didn't Usually Talk About. "And that makes you uncomfortable because…sex alarms you?" he hazarded.

This glare was beyond withering and into 'if looks could kill you'd be a tiny pile of ash and bone right now, John Hamish Watson'. "Sex, as I've already told my brother, doesn't alarm me. But Molly Hooper having sex _does_. Because she shouldn't be."

John sighed. "Look, mate, just because you're not interested in sex doesn't mean the rest of us should become monks - nuns, in this case…"

Before he could continue Sherlock stood up, throwing his hands in the air. "Who says I'm not interested? Why does everyone assume that? What have I ever said or done to make people think that? For God's sakes, I commented on her tits once, does that sound like something a man who isn't interested in having sex with a particular woman would say?"

Shocked disbelief was an emotion John was unpleasantly familiar with, but at least this time it didn't involve learning his wife was a former assassin. Then again, that revelation had ultimately turned out to be a good one for many reasons - sexual role-playing being one of them, not that he ever planned to share THAT with anyone - so perhaps he should reconsider…wait, what had he been thinking? Never mind. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before leaning forward in his chair - not really 'his' since he was living in connubial bliss with Mary and Rosie these days - and said, "Wait, you're saying you have feelings…sexual feelings…for Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock snorted and folded his arms across his chest as he, apparently, made his reply to something in the kitchen just past John's left shoulder. "Yes, John, I am."

"And what about…other feelings?" John asked, unable to stop himself even though it really was none of his business. Both men were so involved in their conversation - lack of eye contact notwithstanding - that neither heard the soft footsteps coming up the stairs, even though the door was partially open.

"Yes," Sherlock replied shortly, still staring past John's shoulder. "Other feelings as well."

"Such as…?" John prodded.

"Love, John," Sherlock snapped. "I'm in love with Molly Hooper and I want to be the next and last man she ever sleeps with and possibly marries and has children with. Happy?"

"Only if you really mean it."

Both men started, John grinning as he saw Molly standing in the doorway, a wary - yet hopeful - expression on her face.

Sherlock hunched his shoulders, then turned slowly. Both he and Molly ignored John's presence, and he settled back into his chair, holding his breath, instead of jumping up and making his excuses as had been his first instinct.

"I really mean it," Sherlock said in a low voice. "Would you be willing to give up your many other lovers and settle down with an emotionally stunted consulting arsehole for the rest of your life?"

Molly shook her head and smiled, moving toward him even as he moved toward her. "Silly man," she said as he pulled her close. "I'm not quite the promiscuous pathologist you think I am. There's been no one since Tom because I realized there never could be anyone but you."

The kiss John witnessed was definitely one of the most passionate, the most pure - sod _The Princess Bride_ , he thought contentedly. _This_ is the kiss that leaves them all in the dust.


	2. Wife of the West

_missconsultingpimpernel asked for the flash fic - Sherlolly - Wife Of The West - so have some K+ rated West!lock with a side of Warstan. And thank you everyone for your lovely reviews of the first story in this series!_

* * *

"You got a _what_?"

Sherlock gave John a disdainful look. "A mail-order bride, you heard me right, Watson."

John Watson, the town's only doctor, shook his head. "I heard you, all right…"

"He simply could not believe his ears," Mary Watson, his wife and nurse, added cheekily. "A mail-order bride, Sherlock? You? Why?"

Not wanting to admit that it was because his parents - no doubt at the instigation of his meddling older brother - had threatened to cut off his research funding and force him to return to England if he didn't marry and produce at least one verifiable grandchild, Sherlock shrugged. "Because I doubt I'll ever find a woman I can actually tolerate on my own, and these women are vetted carefully and actually matched somewhat scientifically to their future husbands. Miss Adler promised me personally," he added in a rush at both Watsons' skeptical looks, "that this Miss Molly Hooper wouldn't be boring or drive me crazy."

"Miss Adler, eh?" John asked with a smirk. "Since when did the notorious Miss Adler go into the matchmaking business?" Suddenly recalling his wife's presence, he blushed but added, "I thought she was concerned with more, er, _temporary_ romantic attachments."

"She's a multi-tasker, John," Mary replied with an understanding - and forgiving, thank God - grin. "And I for one can't wait to meet Miss Hooper and find out exactly what kind of woman she thinks is a match for our dear Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock turned away from them so they couldn't see the flush on his cheeks, pretending to watch for the train on which his bride-to-be was slated to arrive. He pulled out his pocket-watch; the train was late, as usual, and he was surprised at just how impatient he was for its arrival. Well, not the train so much as the woman Irene thought would be perfect for him. That was exactly what her letter had promised, not that he would share that with the Watsons else find himself subjected to even more teasing.

He let out a silent sigh. This was why he'd waited until the very last minute to tell them about his decision. He loved them, but frankly they enjoyed discomfiting him far too much. Not that he didn't deserve it, but this one time he'd hoped they'd be a bit more…understanding.

The soft touch of a hand on his arm caught his attention; he turned to see Mary smiling up at him. "I'm sure she'll be lovely, Sherlock," she said quietly. She tilted her head back, and Sherlock saw John hurrying toward the station manager's office. "John is checking on the train, to see if there have been any telegrams as to why it's late this time. It's probably cattle on the tracks again, I'm sure."

He returned her smile ruefully. "Am I that transparent, Mrs. Watson, that you feel I need comforting?"

With a twinkle in her eyes she nodded. "Yup," she replied, popping the final p as he was wont to do when feeling particularly cheeky. "Us transplanted Brits need to stick together, you know."

He rested his hand briefly on top of hers. They both turned as they heard John hailing them - and both widened their eyes in surprise to see him escorting a young, tweed-clad, bonnetted woman with him. He held a flower-bedecked valise in his free hand and was grinning broadly. "Train came early," he said as the pair stopped a few feet away. "Been and gone since before we arrived, according to Stamford. And this," he added with a flourish, "is Miss Molly Hooper, from Northhamptonshire, England."

"Miss Adler sends her regards," Miss Hooper added with a shy smile. "I must admit, I was unsure of taking her up on her offer to find my perfect match, but if what she's told me about you is true, Mr. Holmes - that you'd be very happy with a wife who was also an experienced chemist and coroner - then I'm very happy to finally meet you." She held out her hand, stepping away from John and biting her lower lip nervously.

Sherlock for his part could do nothing but stare, long enough that her smile slipped and she started to drop her hand. Quickly he seized it in both of his, blinking rapidly as he tried to find the right thing to say. "Irene has outdone herself," he finally blurted. "Not only are you educated and share common interests in me, but you're alse the physical type I prefer - petite, cinnamon-haired, English rose complected although that will no doubt morph into a Prairie tan quickly enough, which I also find quite alluring on the right woman…what was I saying?" he ended, both sounding and looking quite dazed.

Mary's gentle laughter shook him out of it. "I believe, Sherlock, you were saying that you're very happy to meet Miss Hooper as well."

"Indeed," he breathed, still clutching his bride-to-be's hand in both of his. "Indeed I am."

Her answering smile told him all he needed to know about their future together. Well, everything but the number of children they would have.

(Which would be four, two more than the Watson's as he would point out smugly many, many happy years later.)


	3. Chasing the Beginning

_A/N: Next in this series of flash fics (requests are closed, folks, sorry if I didn't make that clear) Rating is K: anonymous asked for sherlolly - Chasing the beginning_

* * *

Molly regarded Sherlock as she pondered his question. When _had_ it begun for her? Was it truly love at first sight, or had it only been a crush that had grown and deepened over time? For that matter, when had it begun for _him_? Because that 'I love you' - the second one, the one that she'd known, deep in her soul, had been real and not just him pretending to mean it - spoke volumes. It hadn't come out of nowhere, as she told him while she struggled with her own answer.

"The night you agreed to help me fake my death," he replied, no pause, no hesitation. "Of course I refused to acknowledge that's what it was, but that was the moment I realized I was in love with you. Told myself it was just gratitude and friendship and trying to make up for saying such awful things to you, for making you feel that you didn't count…but it was a load of rubbish. The same load of rubbish I kept feeding myself during your engagement, and when I was trashing my life off and on with drugs. But now I know, because finally you forced me to admit it just as much as I forced you to say the words aloud. But," he added, when she opened her mouth to protest, "just because the words were forced from us doesn't mean they're not true. I love you, Molly Hooper, and I've loved you for a very long time and I'm just sorry I didn't let myself understand that sooner."

"Well, then, it really doesn't matter, does it?" Molly asked, reaching out and interlacing her fingers with his. "When it began, I mean. What matters is what happens next. Just because we've said the words, just because we meant them, doesn't mean we can't just go on as we have been. We've cleared the air, we're still friends - right?"

He nodded. "Of course. And if that's all you want, if that's enough for you, then it'll be enough for me."

Molly gave a gentle laugh. "Oh Sherlock, you daft man, don't be ridiculous. Just because I don't want to go chasing the beginning doesn't mean I don't want to see how the story ends." She leaned closer, giving him ample time to pull away, but he stayed where he was, and when her lips brushed his he happily returned the kiss.

"Here's to chasing the ending, then," he replied as he pulled her into his arms. "May it be a long, long time coming."

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you everyone for your wonderful reviews. I'm so glad you're enjoying these ficlets!_


	4. Children of Fortune

_thejonderettegirl requested Children of Fortune - Sherlolly_

 _A/N: Rated T for use of the O word and implied sexy times at the end :)_

* * *

"If you had to pick a science fiction universe to live in, which one would it be?"

Sherlock made a face. "Really, Molly? That's your Free Choice question for the game?"

She grinned up from where her head lay in his lap. "Yup," she replied, popping the p and giggling when his frown deepened. "You know the rules, Sherlock - I asked, you have to answer. So, which one? Star Wars? Star Trek? Doctor Who?"

"The universe created by Norman Spinrad in his novels _The Void Captain's Tale_ and _Child of Fortune_ *," he replied after a moment's deliberation. "They're set about 3,000 years in the future during what he called the Second Starfaring Age and…"

Molly sat up and looked at him eagerly as she interrupted. "I know those! I read them ages ago, I think I was about 12 or 13, way too young!" She giggled. "I remember my mum was horrified when I asked her what an orgasm was!"

"Whereas mine would have been only too happy to explain it to me," Sherlock said with a shudder. "The perils of having parents who identify more with Austin Powers than James Bond, I suppose."

Molly gave him a sympathetic glance. "I never would have guessed that yours were more the love beads and peace sign types." Her eyes lit up. "But can you imagine if we'd been teenagers back then? Or in the future Spinrad envisioned? Sex, drugs and rock n roll during our _wanderjahr_ …now I really want to read those books again, I wonder if they're still in print?"

Pleased that he and Molly had found yet another commonality to celebrate, Sherlock pulled her into his lap for a thorough snog. "I'm sure we can find a couple of copies somewhere," he reassured her when they'd caught their breath. "But first," he added with a dark sparkle in his eyes that sent shivers of arousal down her spine, "lets talk about this interest in role-playing you've just revealed to me - and allow me to reacquaint you with orgasms…"

* * *

 _*Real actual sci fi novels written in 1983 and 1985 and NOT for 12-13 year olds to read!_

 _A/N: Thank you everyone for reading this ficlets and reviewing them, I appreciate it to so much :)_


	5. An Unlikely Pair

_Sararossi requested Sherlolly and Anthea, with Sherlock and Anthea jealous of Molly and Mycroft's friendship_. _I get to give this my own title so I'm calling it "An Unlikely Pair". Rated K+_

* * *

"He's _your_ boyfriend, so why is he fawning all over MY girlfriend?" Sherlock groused.

"I think the better question is, why is YOUR girlfriend draped all over MY boyfriend?" Anthea snarked back, managed a quick gulp of her overpriced wine whilst simultaneously continuing to glare at Mycroft and Molly. The pair seemed oblivious to the dirty looks their respective others were casting their way, deep in some private conversation Sherlock couldn't deduce for the life of him.

"She's hardly 'draped over him'," Sherlock scoffed as he took a long sip of his scotch. "They're not cheating on us, after all. They're just…too damned friendly with each other. I think he likes her better than he likes me," he added in a petulant mutter as he downed more of his scotch.

"Well, to be fair, she's a very likable person," Anthea replied, pulling a face as if the admission pained her. "She's nice. Not soft or malleable - at least, not anymore," she added with a sideways glance at her drinking partner. Who gestured irritably for the bartender to top them both up. Stupid boring charity event, why had he allowed Molly to talk him into coming? Oh yes, because, as Anthea had already noted, she was likable. And adorable. And knew just how to get him to do things he would normally never do.

John claimed it must be voodoo. Sherlock knew the awful truth: he was besotted. Utterly, completly, head-over-heels in love with her.

"Well, yes, we all knew that ages before you did," Anthea said.

Sherlock blinked; oh, he'd said that last part aloud. Of course he had, and why shouldn't he? It was no secret, after all. As he focused once more on his girlfriend and his brother, he felt his earlier rancor fading. Anthea was right; Molly was likable. Even Mycroft thought so. And who was he to fault her for one of her best qualities? "A stupid, jealous arse, that's who I am," he said, this time knowing very well that he was saying it aloud.

Anthea sighed. Deeply. "Yeah, me too. I wish I was more likable. People don't like me the way they like her. Oh, they appreciate me because I'm smart and competent, and they want me because I'm beautiful…but they don't like me. Not like they like her." She nodded toward Molly. "You're right; he likes her better than he likes us."

"Well, then, at least we're all in the same club," Sherlock replied with a smirk. Anthea tilted her head inquisitively. "You and I both like her best as well."

She waited three breaths before nodding and raising her glass. "Here's to us, then, fading into Molly Hooper's shadow - where we all belong."

"I'll drink to that," Sherlock said, clinking his glass against hers. Molly glanced over and smiled at him; he smiled back and felt the usual melting sensation he got whenever he realized just what a lucky bastard he was. Mycroft gave Anthea a stiff nod, but the softness in his eyes spoke volumes.

"Aren't we lucky that they both love us best, though?" she said softly.

Sherlock's response was a simple, "Yes."


	6. Learning to Breathe

_A/N: rikkachloechan requested "Learning to Breathe"_

She'd never get used to kissing Sherlock, and being kissed by him. Not if she lived to be a hundred - a thousand - a million - years. Never. The way their lips clung together. The way his tongue felt gliding against hers. The way her heart seemed to want to pound its way out of her chest. The occasional clack of teeth when they both met too eagerly. The way he sucked and nibbled on her lower lip. The dark smoulder in his gaze just before the actual moment. The feel of his body against hers during the more intense kisses, or even just the way her hands felt enclosed by his during brief good-bye and hello kisses.

One of these days she'd learn to breathe again while they were kissing…that was the lie she told herself when she felt overwhelmed by knowing what it was like kissing Sherlock Holmes.

If only she knew he felt exactly the same way whenever he kissed her, Molly Hooper would probably forget to breathe for the rest of her life.


	7. The One With Him Having The Symptoms

_mychakk asked: For Flash Fic Fest (can it be in Friends style?) Sherlolly: The One with Him Having the Symptoms. :) Thank you :)_

 _A/N: Rated K+ and full of fluff!_

* * *

"A fever, a headache, a stomachache, earache, sore throat, cough, and…your fingernails hurt?"

Sherlock nodded miserably. "All eight of them plus the thumbnails. They feel like someone's taken a sharp pen and stabbed them all."

"Uh huh." Molly sounded (understandably) skeptical at this particular symptom. "And you called me instead of John to help you with these symptoms because…?" She allowed the question to trail of suggestively.

The ailing consulting detective clutched the duvet to his chin and gave her a pitiful look. "Because John's bedside manner is utter shite. Also…" He paused, bit his lower lip, looked away, then back up at her through his eyelashes. "Alsohedoesn'tkissthingsandmakethembetter," he finished in a rush. "And I wouldn't want him to, either," he added under his breath.

The smile Molly had been fighting broke free. "Well, if you have some weird version of the flu, then the only part of you I can safely kiss would be your fingernails. And thumbnails, of course."

A grin crept over Sherlock's features as well. He held out his hands expectantly; Molly shook her head but sat on the edge of the bed and took her hands in his. One by one she kissed the stricken digits, starting with the pinkies and working her way to the thumbs and finishing by pressing soft kisses to his knuckles. "Just in case they start hurting later," she told Sherlock. "Now. Take your meds, try to get some sleep - and tomorrow, if you're very good, maybe I'll find other spots on your body that are safe to kiss."

Now _that_ was an order Sherlock could gladly comply with.

* * *

 _A/N: As always, thank you boatloads to everyone for reading, following & reviewing!_


	8. I don't see it as a mistake

_chelseamh98 asked for a flashfic with the title: I don't see it as a mistake. For Sherlolly. Rated K+_

* * *

"I don't see it as a mistake, per se," Sherlock began, trying desperately to regain Molly's good opinion of him. The one she'd had before he'd so thoroughly shoved his size 10 feet - both of them - into his mouth.

"No?" she asked, her voice dangerously calm. "Then what DO you see it as? A joke? A tragedy? An error in judgement?"

"No, of course not!" he exclaimed, reaching out to touch her arm. She jerked away from him…but didn't turn her back and stomp out of the room. Which meant he stood a chance, however minuscule, of fixing this. "I meant…what I meant was…it was just unexpected, that's all. You know I'm not good with change," he added coaxingly, putting on his best puppy-dog eyes. _Sincere_ puppy-dog eyes, since he really was sorry he'd reacted as he had. "And this is a huge change, you have to admit that. And not one we planned for or talked about."

Molly nodded slowly, her expression turning from anger to rueful agreement. "Yeah, but even though we weren't expecting this…you're all right with it? For real?"

"For real," he assured her as he was finally allowed to pull her close for a warm embrace. "So it won't just be the two of us anymore, Mrs. Holmes," he said as he pressed a soft kiss to her temple. "It'll be the three of us instead. You, me, and…"

"Charlie," she supplied when he paused. As if in response to hearing his name, the sleeping kitten she was cuddling to her chest cracked open one eye and let out an inquisitive mew.

"Charlie," Sherlock repeated, reaching down to scratch the little ball of fluff between its downy black ears. "Welcome to Baker Street."


	9. Crude and Proud

_Anonymous asked: Fic title thing "Crude and Proud"_

 _Since no pairing was indicated, this one will be T rated uni!lock Sherlolly and Warstan. Enjoy!_

* * *

Mary gave John a long, admiring look during the long, admiring silence that followed his epic belch. "That," she declared loudly, "was truly EPIC." She was pissed, he was pissed, everyone in the room - all four of them - was pissed. Were pissed. No, wait, that was wrong, were was past tense and they were all definitely, positively still pissed, present tense.

Or something. Grammar-schmammer-scrammer-hammer…

"Mary, you're giggling," Sherlock sniffed. "And John, that burping thing was just _crude_."

"Damn right!" John crowed proudly. He gave his girlfriend an exaggerated leer. "Mary likes 'em crude, dontcha, Mar?"

She nodded enthusiastically. So enthusiastically that Molly had to reach over and stop her after a minute or an hour or something involving time and longer-than-she-should-have-been-nodding. "Yup! Crude and proud of it!" she declared, then proved her personal belief in that credo by crawling into John's lap and snogging him senseless with entirely too much tongue for Sherlock's taste.

Of course he changed his mind very quickly when Molly showed herself to be eager to copy the other two's crude, crass, vulgar public display of affection. Well, semi-public since they were in John's dorm room, alone but for the two…four…six? empty bottle of wine and two very comfy beds and two very very accommodating and willing girlfriends who were happy to shove their tongues down their respective boyfriend's throats…

 _Yeah,_ he thought distractedly as Molly pulled him down on top of her, squishing her lovely little boobs into his chest, _John and Mary definitely had the right attitude._

Crude and damn proud of it!


	10. Women of the Stars

_anonymous requested mythea, warstan & sherlolly- Women of the Stars, so enjoy this T rated drunk!lock comedy. _

* * *

"They're angels," John proclaimed, drunkenly (and repeatedly) stabbing his finger on the bar for emphasis. "All of 'em. Angels."

"Thas' a clicky," Sherlock scoffed, equally drunkenly. "Yer a writerer, Jawn, use 'at 'magination yer s'posed to have. Psssht. Angels. Jus' a clicky, s'all that is. Ammirite, Mykey?"

Mycroft, who was sitting up very straight and proper and trying to look not at all as pissed as he actually was, turned his head very slowly to face his brother. "Cliché," he pronounced carefully, nothing but disdain in his voice. "Not clicky, Sherl. Cliché."

"Psssht," Sherlock said again, waving a dismissive hand in the air and narrowly missing his brother's nose. "Clicky, clishey, wha'ever. Not angels, though." His eyes grew misty. "They're more like…star ladeez. Wimmin o' the shtarz, ammirite?"

Mycroft gave that statement due consideration. John contributed nothing further, having slumped down facefirst on the bar and begun snoring loudly. "Yes," Mycroft said finally. "Women of the stars."

"Huh?" Sherlock asked, having forgotten the conversation entirely in the minute or so it had taken Mycroft to deliberate. John started awake and made an incomprehensible series of noises meant to indicate that no, he hadn't actually been sleeping and was fully awake and aware of everything going on around him.

"Women. Of. The. Stars," Mycroft repeated slowly. "That's who we married us three. Incandesecent creatures of light and beauty unmatched by any other women or beings in exishtence."

"Ah ha!" John exclaimed, causing both Holmes brothers to startle and nearly lose their seating. "I knew it! You're sozzled, Mycroft Holmes! You…you…slurred!"

Mycroft looked affronted. "Did not!"

"Did too!" John replied, poking him belligerantly in the chest.

Sherlock leaned so far back to avoid being poked by mistake that he fell of his barstool - or would have done if it wasn't for Greg Lestrade's quick reflexes. He hauled Holmes the younger back upright. "So you three enjoying yourselves, then?" he asked amiably. Too amiably; Sherlock's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Yesh," John replied, this time pointing his finger at his own chest. "I yam. An' so are they. Mycroft," he added, leaning forward confidentially, "is sloshed."

Greg grinned. "Is he really? Now I really am sorry I had to work late tonight!"

"Our wives are incandescent angels of light from another world," Mycroft said grandly as he rested one arm on the polished mahogany of the bar, not slurring a single word.

The effect was utterly ruined as he then toppled sideways, eyes still wide open but as glazed as an American donut, and fell unconscious to the floor.

Greg sighed and opened his mobile. "Hi, Anthea? Yeah, the lightweights are ready for you three to pick them up and take them home now. No, John and Sherlock are still conscious…barely." He grinned unrepentantly as the other two glowered at him. "So. How long will it take you three incandescent angels of light from another world to materialize at the bar and take your drunk-off-their-arses home, then?"

By the time he hung up, Sherlock had joined his brother on the floor and John Watson was once again face-planted on the bar, one hand still curled protectively around his glass of scotch. Greg signaled the bartender. "I'll have one of those," he said, indicating John's glass. "And don't worry - their wives are on their way to pick this sorry lot up. But until then…" He held his mobile out. "Everybody smile for the camera!"

Sally Donovan helped him make a lovely collage out of the pictures he took that night…and it took Sherlock three whole days to notice it before he ripped it off the bulletin board in the squad room.


	11. Bleeding Secrets

_Anonymous asked: sherlolly / Bleeding Secrets_

 _T rated and angsty. Set during HLV while Sherlock is in hospital._

Molly listens, and waits, and breathes. There's nothing else she can do, not now, maybe not ever, to help Sherlock. He's unconscious, with tubes down his throat and needles in his arms that have nothing to do with a drug habit and electrodes taped to his chest and she just. wants. to. cry.

But she won't. She's stronger than that, she always has been. She's not a crier. "Don't you test that, Sherlock," she whispers, barely louder than the sounds of the machinery that surround his pale, still form on the hospital bed. "Don't you dare go dying on me and making me break my record for not crying over you. Don't you dare."

He doesn't move, doesn't react to this reveal of one of her many bleeding secrets…or so she thinks. She starts back when she feels the slightest tickling sensation on the back of her hand, the one that's resting on the bed. When she looks down, she sees his finger has moved, the pinky no longer resting quiescent alongside the others but now barely barely barely touching hers.

"Dammit," she mutters as the tears start to spill. But they are happy tears, so she tells herself they don't count, her record is unbroken…and Sherlock, she knows, will survive this as he's survived every other trauma he's suffered so far.

She is confident that one day he will break her heart, wound it deeply enough to bring her to angry, hurt, despairing tears, but today is not that day.

And so she smiles and whispers "welcome back to the land of the living, Sherlock Holmes" as his eyelids flicker and finally - finally! - open.


	12. November Rain

_whclocked asked: I'd have to apologise to whoever the anon was whose post I hijacked and I DEFINITELY did not mean it. I need to learn self control... anyway, if I may jump into the ask thingy... How about a Sherlolly with the title "November Rain"?_

 _This is rated T. Thank you as always to everyone for reading, following and reviewing!_

* * *

 _And when your fears subside  
And shadows still remain, oh yeah  
I know that you can love me  
When there's no one left to blame  
So never mind the darkness  
We still can find a way  
'Cause nothin' lasts forever  
Even cold November rain _

_(November Rain by Guns N' Roses)_

It had been a month since Sherrinford. A month since his sister had tortured him emotionally, her twisted idea of punishment for the crime of not playing with her when they were children. A month since he'd begun to recover long-lost memories, the horrors of realizing that Redbeard had never been a dog, but had instead been a child. A best friend. The one thing he'd told John he'd never expected to have…and now he knew that he'd actually had two in his life. An overwhelming concept for a man who'd spent so long eschewing emotion.

Yes, it seemed longer, but it had actually only been a month since he'd been forced to choose between killing his biological brother or the brother he'd found in John Watson. A month since he'd been forced to emotionally torture the one person in his life that he'd never wanted to hurt, ever again. The one who mattered most.

The one who had insisted that it was all fine, that she understood once Sherlock and John separately explained things to her. The one who told Sherlock she forgave him, of course she did.

The one who had refused to allow him to say those three words to her again. "It's fine, Sherlock," she'd insisted when he tried to explain that he'd meant them, that he wasn't just doing it because she'd told him to say it that way. "I understand. We're friends, like you said. It's fine."

Only it wasn't fine, it would never be fine until she _heard_ him, _really_ heard him and _really_ understood him.

Thus his presence on her doorstep, even though she'd long gone to bed. He hesitated before using his key, hesitated again before shucking his Belstaff and shoes, leaving them in the foyer before making his silent way to Molly's bedroom.

His bolt-hole. His true home from home.

He opened the door as silently as he could, stiffening at the small creak that it made, then continued into the room when Molly showed no sign of waking. He discarded suit jacket, trousers, and button-up, stripping down to his pants and sliding between the sheets next to her. Curling around her for the first time since his sister had been taken back into custody.

With a sigh she turned in his arms. Not asleep, then. "What is it, Sherlock? I told you we're fine…"

He leaned close and kissed her. Softly. On the lips. "I want you to let me say the words, Molly. With no one holding a gun to our heads. With time and perspective, which I believe are the words you used when you wouldn't let me say them before."

"It's only been a month," she replied softly, but he could hear the hesitation in her voice, and his eyes closed briefly when she reached up to rub her thumb along his zygomatic arch. "That's not really a lot of time, or a lot of perspective."

"It is when your mind works so much faster than that of ordinary people," he countered. "I feel like it's been a year, not a month. Would a year be enough time, give an ordinary person enough perspective?"

She huffed out a quiet laugh. "Yeah, I guess so."

He looked at her intently, reading her as best he could in the darkness of a room lit only by moonlight. "If that's how long you need, I'll wait," he said, although everything within him - heart, mind, intellect, emotion - urged him to just say the words and consequences be damned. But it wasn't just about him, it was about her…and he had the sinking suspicion he'd just insulted her. "I don't mean you're ordinary," he said in a rush. Damn, why couldn't he just say the right thing to this woman, ever? "You're not ordinary, Molly Hooper, you never have been and you never will be and I don't think of you that way, I promise, I didn't mean to imply…"

She silenced him with a tender kiss. "I know," she said soothingly. "I know. But I do think I need more time and more perspective. Maybe not a year, but certainly more than a month. Because I do want to say those words again, and I do want to hear them from you…but not quite yet. Can you be patient, Sherlock? Can you wait just a bit longer?"

"For you, Molly, I can wait as long as it takes," he replied, grateful beyond words that she allowed him to gather her close, that she rested her head on his chest above his wildly beating heart, that she curled her arms around him and held him as tightly as he was holding her. "As long as it takes."

Then he closed his eyes and, holding the woman he loved in his arms, Sherlock Holmes felt himself falling into the most restful sleep he'd had in years.


	13. A Funny Thing Happened

_Title prompt by sunken-standard. Rated K+/T-. Thank you all for continuing to read my scribbles, and especially for the reviews. They are all very much appreciated!_

* * *

"We're going to see Molly Hooper."

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes, dropping his head to the back of the seat. It was like deja vu all over again. Only this time he wasn't high - thank God for that or she'd do more than just slap him - but he was definitely not at his best.

"Do we have to?" he whined as John settled in grimly next to him.

"Yes," his best friend (most of the time, definitely not today) replied, folding his arms across his chest and jutting out his chin in his most stubborn expression as he gazed out the car window.

"It's not my fault," Sherlock mumbled.

"Course it is, Shezza," Wiggins, seated on his other side, replied cheerfully. "S'always your fault when it comes to the missus, innit?"

Much as he disliked admitting any such thing, Wiggins was right. "Fine, it's my fault. But she knew what she was getting into when she…"

"If you finish that sentence, mate, you'll regret it more than you can possibly imagine," Greg advised from behind the steering wheel. Like Wiggins, he was entirely too cheerful about all this. "Cos if you even _think_ about wiggling out of this by turning the blame on that saint of a woman, just because she had the poor taste to fall in love with you…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snapped, trying not to show how rapidly he was backpedalling. "I just meant that she'll understand, that's all."

"Yeah, right," John snorted. "Least this time you don't have to pee in a cup for her."

Wiggins and Lestrade both giggled way too long at that asinine remark, while Sherlock continued to sulk - and tried his damndest to figure out how to put the best possible spin on things.

It was a good thing they didn't need him to pee in a cup, since she wasn't in the lab. He tried not look at is as a bad sign that she was, instead, in the morgue. In the middle of an autopsy.

With a bone saw in hand and blood splatters on the faceguard of her headgear.

Even over the noise of the saw she must have heard the doors open, but she didn't look up. Not even when Lestrade cleared his throat and announced, "We found him." Whether from anger or out of professionalism he couldn't judge, not without seeing her face.

He focused on her hands - so small, but so strong and so competent. Gloved. No betraying bumps to show that she was wearing a ring. That he could confidently put down to professionalism; she'd have it pinned neatly to the inside of her lab coat, away from the potential dangers of losing it inside an open chest cavity or down the drain when she removed her gloves.

"Molly, I -" he started, then fell silent when she snapped up one hand, palm towards him. He heard the doors open behind him but didn't dare turn around, even when he heard what had to be the tapping of Mycroft's brolly on the tiles and a stifled gasp from Mrs. Hudson.

After a few minutes during which Wiggins shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot and John just stood on his other side in stoic soldier mode, the saw went silent. Molly carefully placed it in the basin on the counter, just as carefully covered the body with a sheet, removed the faceguard and her gloves, then finally turned to face him. "Well?" she said, watching him steadily as she unpinned her ring and held it between finger and thumb. "Do I give this back or not?"

He swallowed. Hard. "No, you don't give it back," he replied, daring to step closer and reaching out for it. "You let me put it back on your finger." With his other hand he fished in his pocket, carefully pulling out the matching white-gold band. "And you let me put this one on, too. Please."

"Did you get them? The bad guys who were worth running after the day of our wedding? Even though Greg told you his men could take care of it?" There was a slight crack in the facade now, a hint of a tremor in his voice, there and gone so quickly a lesser man would have missed it entirely.

Not him. "Yes, I got them." He hesitated not a second before adding softly, "I'm sorry. I believe the expression is cold feet - not because I don't want to marry you, but because I...panicked. And I wanted you to have a chance to back out if you wanted to."

She nodded. "By reminding me just how idiotic you can be? Yeah, I got that." Her expression finally softened and she nodded, giving him permission to move closer as she reached out and took his free hand in hers. The one without the ring he still held. "Sherlock, I love you. I'm not going to just wake up one day and stop loving you. I promise."

"I don't deserve you."

She grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yeah, that's true. But looks like you're stuck with me." She took a deep breath. "So. Let's do this, all right?"

He nodded, grinning back at her in relief. "Right. Let's do this."

Still holding her hand in his, he turned to face their gathered friends and family. Nodding regally at Mycroft, who had hooked his brolly over one arm and was paging leisurely through a black-bound hardcover book that held all sorts of government archania…

...including the ceremony he was about to officiate. Looking up, he cast a supercilious eye on the gathered crowd - their parents, John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Wiggins, Mike Stamford - before meeting his younger brother's gaze. "If the bride and groom agree to begin…?"

"We do," Molly and Sherlock replied together. Firmly. With no hesitation whatsoever.

And if anyone had any comments about the unusual venue…

Well. The pair of them had always been more Morticia and Gomez than Terry and June.


	14. Wait, was that a proposal?

_Anonymous asked: sherlolly - wait was that a proposal?_

 _Last of my flash fic fest stories, post TFP, Rated K. Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing, you guys rock!_

* * *

He was staring at her, shock writ large on his face. "Did you just…"

Molly stood her ground, refusing to back down now that she'd said the words. "Yes I did. You told me you meant it, that you love me and not just because your psychopath of a sister was threatening me. You already know I meant it. And you came all the way over here to tell me you wanted to see if we could make a go of it - well, I'm game, but only if we do it officially. Legally binding. Till death do us part. Or are you not up for that particular challenge?"

She was still angry, still hurt; even John could have deduced that, had he been at her flat instead of safely home with his daughter and a half-dozen of Mycroft's best security goons watching over the pair of them. She would likely regret throwing down that particular gauntlet, but he was damned if he was going to refuse to pick it up. "Yes, Molly Hooper," he said, standing ramrod straight in front of her. "I will marry you."

The kiss they shared at his acceptance, their first kiss, was equal parts tender promise and intense warning that there was no backing out now.

Luckily for them both, neither wanted to do so.


	15. Write It Down

_whclocked asked mizjoely Could you possibly thinking of an AU where Molly and Sherlock met when she was fresh out of med school?_

 _Also Louise Brealy quote:_ "I am quite good at putting things down on a pad and nodding."

 _Since this is a flash fic I've decided to reopen that collection and add this story to it. Rated a very light T/K+_

* * *

"You're quite good at that."

Molly looked up at the sound of that sexy baritone rumble, straight into the eyes of the most striking looking man she'd ever seen. "Um, what?" she managed to stammer out after a moment.

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he grinned at her. "That," he said, gesturing toward her notes. "Putting things down on a pad and nodding."

Her confusion turned to annoyance. "It is part of my job," she said defensively, clutching the clipboard to her chest. "I'm still learning, I need to take notes- "

The stranger's expression went from cool amusement to consternation. "No, no! I didn't mean…it wasn't an _insult_ , I just - damn, where's John when I need him? He's the one who's good at this kind of thing."

Molly's brow furrowed in confusion. "What kind of 'thing'? Who's John?" Damnit, why were the gorgeous ones - even the socially awkward gorgeous ones - always taken?

"My partner," he explained. When her shoulders sagged in disappointment, his eyes widened. "No, not _that_ kind of partner - we're flatmates, we work together sometimes. On cases. He's a doctor, I'm a consultant…"

He trailed off into silence, leaving Molly even more cnfused than before - until suddenly the penny dropped. "D'you mean Dr. John Watson? Are you - are you Sherlock Holmes?"

He nodded, appearing relieved that she'd figured it out without him having to explain further. "And you're Molly Hooper, doing your surgical rotation after having graduated top in your class a year early, and with plans to continue as a Specialist Registrar, one cat, father deceased, former smoker…"

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" Molly interrupted him to ask before he could continue the list of facts he'd either badgered out of Dr. Watson or deduced as was what their mutual acquaintance claimed was his particular skill.

"Black, two sugars," Sherlock blurted out. "And you take yours light, extra cream. The canteen is awful, but there's a place afcross the stree and down a block that isn't too bad. See you there at the end of your shift in, mm, fifteen minutes." He gave a decisive nod and turned to leave, black coat sweeping out dramatically behind him.

He ruined the effect by immediately stopping, hard enough that his shoes squeaked on the lino, and turning back to her with a panicky expression on his face. "That _was_ an invitation, right? I didn't get it wrong? You weren't trying to diagnose me or anything?"

She smiled reassuringly. "Nah, I save that for second dates. See you in fifteen!"

She watched as he strode down the hall and vanished through a pair of swinging doors. She saw him turn back with a smouldering look that essentially exploded her ovaries, smiled at him weakly, and clutched her clipboard even closer to her chest.

So. That was Dr. Watson's infamous flatmate and friend, eh? Just as bad at social interactions as she'd heard. Just as intense as she'd heard. Even more gorgeous than she'd thought he would be - and he'd come by just to meet her, if her own powers of deduction could be trusted.

 _Oh. How lovely!_

The next fifteen minutes, she knew, were going to absolutely _crawl_ by.


	16. war relationship

_A/N: This ficlet (rated K+) comes to you courtesy of: a) my fingers being on the wrong keys and typing 'war' instead of 'est' (as in "established"), b) me blogging about it, and c) writingwife83 commenting with "#war relationship". Enjoy this little WWII AU!_

* * *

"Ah, Captain Holmes, here to inspect the troops?"

The officer in question didn't bother to smooth the scowl from his features as he turned to see the cheeky young mechanic wiping oil from a pair of wrenches. "If by 'the troops' you mean 'my aeroplane', Corporal Hooper, then yes," he said frostily. "How is the _Mrs. Hudson_ today?"

"Oh, she'll do," Corporal Hooper replied with a grin, reaching over to slap an affectionate hand on the aircraft's fuselage. Her grin vanished and her eyes narrowed as she added, "That is, if you manage to keep out of harm's way this time. Your missions are supposed to be strictly recon, so you keep telling me."

Captain John Watson awkwardly turned a laugh into a cough as the RAF pilot side-eyed him. "Yes, well, too bad the Germans don't always cooperate with me on that, Corporal."

"Oh my God, will you too please stop with all this 'Captain' and 'Corporal' nonsense?" A new voice - that of Molly's fellow mechanic, Mary Morstan, entered the conversation. She gave an exasperated shake of her head at the two even as she threaded her arm through that of her fiancé. "There's no one in this part of the airfield today but the four of us." She looked around with an exaggerated air, hand over her eyes. "Just get it over with, will you?"

"Get what over with?" Sherlock demanded - but the tips of his ears had turned a decided shade of pink.

"You know," John said. "You've been dancing around this long enough. Mary's right; just…just get it over with and kiss the girl, will you?"

Molly's eyes widened and her lips parted, but her words went forever unheard as Sherlock finally did as his friends had been urging and kissed the woman he loved.

And if Molly was heard to mumble something along the lines of "About bloody time" afterwards, well, the others pretended not to hear.


	17. Chilly

Rated K ficlet for writingwife83 who has lost power twice due to storms in the past two weeks.

* * *

Molly's teeth were chattering by the time Sherlock got the small fire lit in the grate. There wasn't enough fuel in the remote cabin to keep it going all night, and the storm raging outside guaranteed there would be no rescue by the Americans until the morning. So much for their luck in managing to get a call for help through before they loss mobile coverage.

Assessing the situation quickly, Sherlock came to the only conclusion he could: they would freeze to death.

Fantastic.

When he focused back on the outer world, however, he was shocked to realize that Molly had begun stripping off her clothes and was patiently directing him to do the same. When he was wearing nothing but his socks, she carefully made a pallet of their clothes in front of the fire, Sherlock's beloved Belstaff on top, then directed him to slip his arms into the sleeves and lie down. His eyes widened as he belatedly realized she meant them to conserve their body heat by sharing it. Brilliant!

As they snuggled together, her sock-clad toes tucked bewteen his calves, he reflected on how thankful he was that he'd dragged her on this case instead of John.

When he somewhat shyly admitted as much to Molly, she simply grinned, kissed the tip of his (abominably cold) nose and snuggled closer.

Brilliant indeed.


	18. Small Jars

_A little flash fic inspired by mae-jones and her new tumblr cooking blog maeskitchen._

* * *

"Molly, none of these are big enough, why don't you keep anything larger than a pill bottle in your kitchen?"

The consulting pain-in-the-arse turned to glare at her and Molly continued to ignore him as she examined the bag of turmeric she'd just purchased. She hummed an off-key melody - deliberately off-key so as to further annoy Sherlock and his supposed 'perfect pitch' ears - and considered how best to distribute the spice amongst her (admittedly vast) collection of small jars.

"Molllllyyy," Sherlock whined, coming up behind her and putting his arms around her, "why don't you have any big jars? Why keep everything in such small jars? They're–"

"Impossible to organize," she said, along with him. Finally taking pity, she looked up at his hang-dog expression and smiled. "Because, dearest darling man of mine, I quite enjoy the chaos of my spice cabinet. I love not knowing what I'll find or where I'll find it. It makes cooking much more experimental, and therefore loads more fun."

She waited while his eyes unfocused and he processed what she'd just said, then smiled even wider when his expression morphed into an "Ohhhh!" of "I get it now." He didn't even have to say the words, nor did he bother; instead, he turned her in his embrace and lifted her up onto the counter for easier reach as he kissed her.

"Experimental," he mumbled against her lips as she hugged him around his waist. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect, why did it take me so long to figure you out, Molly Hooper?"

She pulled back a bit and booped his nose her finger. "Shame on you, Sherlock Holmes," she laughingly chided him. "Don't you know I'm the one mystery you'll never ever figure out?"

"True," he conceded as he nuzzled her neck. "And thank God for that."

* * *

 _End note: Thank you everyone who continues to read, follow and especially review my fics, you all rock!_


	19. The Unthinkable

_Do NOT read this Sherlolly ficlet unless you've a) seen Avengers Infinity War or b) don't give a fig about Avengers Infinity War. MAJOR spoilers for the end of the movie. Also much angst. And MCD. You have been warned. Rated K+_

* * *

It happens suddenly, in the course of a single five minute period. Half the world's population just…gone. Vanished into dust, blown away by the breeze or left in heaps, indoors and out. Every continent, every country, across age, race, sex, any barrier you care to name. Rich and poor (the three youngest British royals are now orphans to be raised by their bewildered and grief-stricken uncle and his new bride), young and old (horrified nurses at Mass General and many other hospitals around the world screaming as babies swirl into dusty nothingness before their eyes), male and female, friends and enemies, all gone.

It happens in front of Sherlock's disbelieving eyes: one minute he's taking a giggling, two-year-old Rosie Watson from her father, the next John is just…gone. A pile of dry leavings on the carpet in 221B's sitting room, looking like nothing more than a mess for Mrs. Hudson to hoover up.

Except Mrs. Hudson is gone as well, and his brother Mycroft and their parents, even Eurus is gone, leaving Sherlock as the last Holmes standing. Rosie is screaming in his arms and he's frozen in shock as he stares at the place where his best friend just was, wondering what he'd taken to cause such an hallucination. He's stayed off the sweeties since Sherrinford, not only for his own sake but for everyone whom he loves and is loved by.

That number is now down to a bare handful. Rosie. Lestrade (but not Sally Donovan, she's shriveled up and died just like the others, Anderson and Dimmock and a full quarter of the Met's uniformed officers). Wiggins is still there, for whatever that's worth.

And Molly.

Molly Hooper has survived the destruction. Molly comes pounding up the stairs to his flat while he's still flailing, still trying to process the impossible, still unable to do anything to calm his goddaughter. She tears into the room, tears streaming from her eyes, sucking in a panicky breath at the sight of what used to be John Watson lying on the carpet, but the naked relief in her eyes as she gasps out, "Sherlock! Rosie!" is almost too much to bear.

He sinks to his knees, into her embrace as she rushes across the room and flings her arms around the pair of them. Rosie stops howling (but not crying) as she puts her little face against her godmother's neck, taking comfort from the single grown-up not incapacitated by the impossibilities of this terrible, terrible day. Sherlock can't fully relinquish her, and Molly doesn't even try to pull the sobbing toddler from his arms, just holds them both close as if terrified to let either of them go.

Since they're equally terrified to let her go, it works out.

The huddle together like that for nearly an hour, Rosie eventually falling into a fitful sleep and the two adults praying (he never thought he'd pray again, hasn't done so since reaching the age of reason) that this isn't just the first wave of - of whatever it is that's happened.

(They don't find out what it is until days later, when the attack on Wakanda is made public, that it was quite literally genocide perpetrated by an alien madman across not only this world, but every inhabited world in the galaxy. By then they're too numb to care about the why and how, only about their own personal losses, the who on a local level difficult enough to conceive without trying to expand their sense of loss to include alien others on worlds they've never heard of.)

"Molly," Sherlock rasps when he regains his ability to speak, hours later. After they've settled Rosie in her travel cot, set up in the sitting room so they can watch her, both knowing how utterly helpless they'll be to stop it if it happens again, if she's taken from them the same way her father was, but needing to see her. To know if it does happen, immediately, but thank God it doesn't. Rosie is safe, they are safe, everyone who was going to be taken is already gone.

(Mrs. Hudson is gone, they know about her because they all three went down to check on her once they could pry themselves apart from each other, and the sight of that pile of dust in her kitchen, settled on the floor and the table and the chair and drifting in her cold cup of half-drunk tea…that sight was one that would haunt Sherlock and Molly forever, thank God Rosie was sleeping and too young to understand even if she'd been awake and…)

"Molly," he says again, fighting to unsee, to delete from his Mind Palace, what he's seen today.

He doesn't realize he's crying until her fingers are on his cheeks, her thumbs wiping away the fat wet drops falling from his eyes. She's long since cried out, her eyes red and swollen, her throat dry and scratchy, her grief and horror (she watched Mike Stamford and three interns disintegrate before her very eyes in the Path Lab, saw dozens more dissolve as she raced out of the hospital and down the street, desperate to see Sherlock and Rosie and John - oh GOD, John! - but she does what she always does.

She helps him. She holds him, she kisses him, she makes him feel fractionally less disoriented, fractionally more anchored. She's his constant and she hasn't been taken from him and she won't be taken from him (he eventually learns along with the rest of humanity).

"Sherlock," she murmurs, holding him close, her eyes on Rosie, sleeping so innocently, her thumb in her mouth, her cheeks red and blonde hair tangled.

They hold each other, and watch their goddaughter, and try their best to just keep breathing and living and surviving the end of the world as they've known it.


	20. Following Her

_Holidaysat221b prompt of the day - 5/11/18: Sherlock sees a woman on the street. Instantly intrigued (you can choose as to why) he follows her. - mel-loves-all (from tumblr)_

 _Because I am in an EXCESSIVELY angsty mood today, I came up with these two tear-jerkers for our favorite pair. Apologies in advance for the MCD in both versions. Story is rated T because of that._

* * *

 **Following Her Version 1**

"Excuse me, Miss-?"

She turns to face him, her expression half-inquisitive, half-wary. "Sorry, do I know you?"

He shakes his head. "No, probably not." He gives her a wry smile. "Unless you happened to read the tabloids 25 years ago. Well before you were born, of course."

She lets out a soft "oh!" of recognition. "You're Sherlock Holmes!"

He's taken aback, not having expected his jesting comment to bear fruit. "Well, yes, I am. And if I might ask…?"

"Hooper," she says quietly. "My name is Mary Hooper. I believe you knew my mother?"

He bows his head, the better to hide the flash of grief in his eyes. "Yes, I did," he replies. "She was one of the finest women - finest people - I ever had the privilege to know. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Not just mine," she murmurs, reading him just as well as her mother ever did. "But thank you, Mr. Holmes. It was very nice to meet you, even under the circumstances."

He accepts her hand, shakes it gravely, and nods his good-byes as she turns and enters the funeral home.

 **Following Her Version 2**

"Excuse me, Miss-?"

She turns to face him, her expression morphing from surprise to sorrow as soon as she sees him. "Miss Hooper," she supplies, reaching out to take his hand. "Miss Mary Hooper."

He smiles at her. "I knew a Mary Watson and a Molly Hooper once." His smile fades as memory rises up to taunt him. "But they're both gone now."

She nods and lays a gentle hand on his arm. "I know. And I'm so sorry about that, Mr. Holmes. Why don't you let me buy you a cup of coffee, hmm?" She nods at the coffee shop in front of which they've stopped. "I hear this place has the most marvelous cake."

He agrees, not sure why he does - he tells himself it's for the cake, of course - and allows her to take his arm and escort him inside. The owner gives them a small wave, but he's not sure why the man's expression is full of pity. Does he think them an odd pair, the pretty young woman with the chocolate eyes and cinnamon curls, and the old duffer with his faded blue scarf and slightly raggedy coat? Hmpf, let him pity them, he thinks gruffly, wrapping the coat more tightly around himself and settling into a chair. He loves this coat and scarf; more importantly she loved them both, gifted him the scarf years ago, right before she..

He shuts the memory away, smiles at the young lady as she brings him a cup of coffee and a slice of lemon cake. That was always her favorite, and he accepts now in her memory.

The young lady murmurs something about going to the lady's; he nods abstractedly, caught up in the memories that won't stay locked away, curse them, and takes a bite of his cake.

As she walks away he dimly hears her voice saying, "Uncle John? I found him. He's here, at the cake place. Can you and Rosie come and get us in about ten minutes?"

He wonders distantly who she's talking about, but the memories of the past rise up and consume him, clouding the present as they always do these days, and he returns to his cake and coffee.

And in the lady's room, his daughter cries quietly into her hands.


	21. Romantic Getaway

_A/N: A rated K+ ficlet featuring a bit of an MCU crossover strictly for humorous purposes. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Sherlock, that's, um, quite the get-up," Molly said as she gawked at her newly minted boyfriend. Then the implications of him wearing false whiskers and fancy dress (including a rather dashing red cloak) caught up with her, and her expression (and stomach) dropped. "Does this mean we're not going to Sweden, then?"

He smiled at her, and when he spoke she was almost too distracted by his American accent to hear what he was saying. "I'm not going to Sweden, Miss Hooper, but you and Sherlock are."

"Wait, what?" She took a step back, squeaking in alarm as she bumped into an unexpected barrier.

Strong arms looped around her waist, and she relaxed only slightly when she heard Sherlock's warm baritone rumble in her ear. "It's all right, Molly. I just called in a favor from a friend when Mycroft decided to add me to a 'no fly' list to try and force me into taking on some boring job he has lined up."

"A friend." Molly looked uncertainly from the strange American standing in front of her and Sherlock. "He looks an awful lot like you, Sherlock." An awful thought occurred to her. "He's not another secret Holmes, is he?"

Both men chuckled at her question, and Sherlock squeezed her reassuringly. "No, it's just one of those cosmic coincidences. I promise." Abruptly he straightened up, releasing his hold on her, and stepped over to her suitcase. "This is it, then? Just the one bag?"

She nodded, still puzzling over what could was going on. Sherlock picked up his own bag and held out his arm in a gesture as old as chivalry. She obediently slid her hand into the crook of his arm, then gasped as the other man - what was his name? - began a series of odd gestures, holding one hand out in front of himself, whilst simultaneously making a circling motion with the opposite hand. She barely noted the ostentatious gold ring encircling his middle and index fingers, too fixated on the glowing circle of - flame? electricity? - that started to form in the air in front of him.

She tightened her grasp on Sherlock's arm, gasping aloud when the circle enlarged - and suddenly showed a view of some other place. A room made entirely of…ice?

"Right then, off you go," the stranger said cheerfully. "Enjoy your - what did you call it, Sherlock? Sex holiday?"

"Romantic getaway," Sherlock corrected him haughtily. He smiled reassuringly at Molly. "Come on then, Molly. Sweden awaits."

With a nod at the other man, and an admonishment not to tell anyone where they were, he gently maneuvered Molly so that they stood at the very edge of the strange portal…and then encouraged her with a warm kiss to step through it.

 **BONUS FOLLOW-UP NOT POSTED ON TUMBLR** :

As soon as the lovebirds stepped through the portal, Dr. Stephen Strange allowed it to collapse, a satisfied smile on his lips. "About time my dear doppelganger got his head out of his ass," he muttered. "And I thought I had commitment issues!"

"What was that?" an unexpected voice said from behind him. He whirled around, the cloak flaring dramatically, and saw a befuddled John Watson standing in the doorway. "What the hell are you wearing, Sherlock?" he demanded. "Going undercover at a fancy dress ball?"

Strange hesitated before answering; then, with a mental 'what the hell', nodded. "Something like that." Then, unable to resist, he used his sling ring to open a portal back to New York city. "Do you think Rosie would like to visit the Empire State Building, John? No? All right then, laters!"

Just as the portal collapsed behind him, he heard the other man swearing in a manner that would impress even the most hardened gang member, and chuckled to himself. Let Sherlock explain that one to his friend!

* * *

 _End note: This came about because of an audio clip about Sherlock refusing to come back to London from Sweden when Mycroft asks him to. This is something to do with (possibly?) an upcoming video game. Or something. Check out thegameisnow to find out more._


	22. Right Way, Wrong Way & the Holmes Way

_holidaysat221b Prompt of the day - 5/25/18_

 _Molly discovers she's pregnant with Sherlock's child at the worst possible time: while she's with his parents, being hidden away, and the two are pretending to be just friends. Bonus if they figure it out before they're told! - by afteriwake_

 _Rated K+. Enjoy, and thank you as always for your wonderful reviews!_

* * *

"Molly, dear, is there…something you'd like to tell us?"

She felt her smile faltering and scrambled for something to say without giving anything away. What did they know? Because of course they were Sherlock's parents and of course they knew she was hiding something…but what? "I'm…really enjoying this visit?" she hazarded with an awkward laugh. "I mean, of course, not the reason for the visit, but just getting to spend some time away from London, and getting to know you a bit better…"

Marian and Siger exchanged glances just shy of what Molly would call pitying before turning their attention back to her. Siger reached out and patted her hand, taking up where his wife left off. "Yes, we're very glad to have you as well, my dear, always nice to have Sherlock's, erm, _friends_ visiting with us. As long as no one's getting drugged, of course!"

His laugh was just as awkward as Molly's, and she found herself warming to him even more. His wife gave him a chastising frown, and he cleared his throat. "Yes, well, the thing is, Marian has notic - that is," he hastily corrected himself, "Marian and I were just…wondering. About how you've been…feeling."

Molly went cold. Oh God, they'd noticed! She'd tried so hard to keep her fluctuating appetite, her intermittent nausea, her tiredness to herself, but of course they'd noticed! Why wouldn't they notice? They were Sherlock's parents, after all.

"Well, of course it's a bit stressful, isn't it?" she asked brightly, hoping she didn't look as pale as she felt. "Being hidden away in the countryside while your b- _friend_ , while your _friend_ \- I mean friends, of course, John and Greg and Sherlock! - are hunting down a leftover Moriarty lieutenant who wants to kill you. Kill me, that is," she continued, knowing she was babbling but literally unable to remember how to shut up. "No one wants to kill _you_ , as far as I know, and why should they? You're both absolutely lovely and…"

"Molly, is my son the father of the child you're carrying?" Marian asked bluntly. Siger sighed quietly but offered Molly an encouraging smile when their eyes met.

"Yes," she answered after a long (pregnant!) pause. "Yes he is. But he doesn't know about it, I just found out when all… _this_ … happened." She waved a hand vaguely in the air to indicate the situation they currently found themselves embroiled in. "But no one knows we're together, we agreed not to tell anyone till it was safe again. Sorry."

"Tosh, no need to apologize," Marian said crisply. She gave Molly a warm smile and pulled her into a hug that spoke volumes. "We're very happy for you both, and we're sure that son of ours will have everything settled before too much longer. And then," she added, as she held Molly at arms length, her eyes glittering with purpose, "we shall help plan the wedding, the baby shower, modifications to your flat - I believe Mycroft can foot the bill for that one, considering this is all his fault. I do love that boy but he never could learn to leave well enough alone when it came to international espionage."

Sensing how overwhelmed Molly was obviously feeling, Siger added comfortingly, "Not to worry, Molly. None of that will happen until and unless you and Sherlock give the okay." He gave his wife a look of gentle warning. "Isn't that right, my dear?"

"Yes, of course," Marian said impatiently. She hopped to her feet and gave Molly a bright smile. "In the meantime, perhaps we can find something to help settle your stomach a bit. I read somewhere that a pint of Guinness a day might do the trick, and that's not nearly enough alcohol to harm the baby." She held out her hand, and Molly stood up. Linking their arms together, chatting brightly about baby names and her own three pregnancies, she led Molly away to the kitchen.

As soon as they'd gone, Siger turned his attention to the door leading to the upstairs. "It's all right," he said softly. "You can come down now. Your mother will be quite occupied with your lady love for some time."

There was a small sound quite like an exasperated sigh, and Sherlock entered the room. He gave his father a small hug in greeting, speaking in a low voice after they'd separated. "We wanted to surprise you both with the news once things had cleared up - that we were together, of course. Molly thinks I don't know about the baby but–" He shrugged.

"But you're a Holmes," his father finished for him with a small laugh. "Good thing Molly knows full well what kind of family she's joined her fortunes too - er, you do intend to propose, my boy? Make it permanent and all that?"

Sherlock gave a haughty sniff. "It's _already_ permanent," he declared, then softened his expression into something a bit like ones Siger remembered from his early teen years - awkward, uncertain, hesitant. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet covered jeweler's box. "It's Great-Grandmother Vernet's ring," he said. "Mycroft got it from the safe for me before all this nonsense with Moran started. Do you– do you think she'll like it, Dad?"

Siger beamed at his youngest son. "Absolutely, my dear boy, absolutely. And once you've finished all this nonsense with Moran - or is it already finished?" he broke off to ask shrewdly. "Is that why you're here, sneaking about?"

Sherlock's expression became indignant. "I'm not sneak– actually, yes," he admitted. "It's done. I wanted to surprise Molly, talk to her alone when she came upstairs, but then you and Mummy started in on her and, well…" He grinned. "I suppose this is a weekend for good news."

"For all of us," Siger assured him, pulling him into a hug and patting his back affectionately. "For all of us. Now let's go join the womenfolk in a pint of congratulatory - and medicinal - Guinness, shall we?"

Side by side Sherlock and his father walked to the kitchen, each pondering the changes in their lives - and radiating quiet joy in the contemplation.


	23. Cat Burglar

_cumbercougars asked: Molly is a cat burgler._

"Gotcha!"

Molly "The Mouser" Hooper groaned as Sherlock Holmes snaked his arms around her waist. "Dammit, Holmes, I told you I was working tonight!"

He held up the handful of jewels she'd been about to steal. "And I told _you_ I wasn't about to give up our date night just because you had a job! Now, where are we meeting the client? Because," he added before she could say anything else, "that will help decide where we're going for supper after."

* * *

 _A/N: I have had a not so good week and needed something to distract me, so voila! More flash fics. Thank you to everyone who prompted me, and a special thanks to all my readers for continuing to, well, read my stories, lol!_


	24. Kiss On A Dare

_elennemigo asked: Molly and Mary in a bar. Molly is drunk and Mary dares her to kiss the next dude that enters the bar. Sherlock is the dude. :)) 3_

 _And I decided to make it a S4 AU where Mary lives, just for funsies. Rated K+ for smoochiness. :)_

* * *

"What was that for?" Sherlock looked from Molly to Mary, lips still tingling from the kiss Molly had laid on him before he'd even had time to undo his scarf.

"Mary dared me and Hoopers never back down from a dare," Molly replied, not slurring a single word despite her obvious inebriation. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mary, who was stifling a giggle behind her hand.

"I didn't dare her to kiss you specifically," Mary said once she'd got her giggles under control ( _hmm, Mary usually handled her own liquor better than this, must be celebrating something - ah yes, first girl's night out since Mary's near death at the hands of Vivian Norbury_ ). "I dared her to kiss the next fellow to enter the bar."

"And Hoo-oopers never back down from a da-are!" Molly sing-songed…but her eyes showed her nerves. She was worried, why was she - ah, of course.

Sherlock turned to Mary with a smile. "Mrs. Watson, I have it on good authority that Hoopers never back down from a dare. I can also assure you that a Holmes doesn't either." He looked back over at Molly, leaning close enough to her that even a drunken Mary Watson should get the hint. "So. Do feel free to dare me to do whatever you think Molly wants me to do to her right now."

"Double dare him," Molly whispered, just as Sherlock pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

"Didn't even give me a chance to make the bloody dare," Mary was heard to grumble - but she didn't sound the least bit disappointed.

 _(Later she'd confess that she'd seen Sherlock through the window when she made the dare. Neither one minded.)_


	25. Guardians and Girls

_anonymous asked: Warstan, Sherlolly and Mythea / 'Guardians and Girls'_

 _A/N: Blame this on the fact that I recently rewatched 'Guardians of the Galaxy'. Also, John is a genetically-engineered intelligent raccoon. Just go with it. Rated K+ (and originally posted on AO3 August 2017, but missed adding it here, whoops!)_

* * *

"We're hit!"

"Yes, thank you Molly, I can see that," Sherlock snipped as he staggered into the flight deck, still buttoning up his dress shirt. The man refused to give up on Terran fashion even after 10 years as a member of the larger galactic community.

Molly would never stop finding it, in Mary's words, 'a tiny bit sexy.'

"Do pay attention to the controls rather than my attire, I'd rather we didn't end up a mass of exploding gasses just because you were distracted by your attraction to m…SON OF A BITCH!" he roared as Molly executed a perfect barrel roll and dodged the barrage of blaster fire their current nemeses - more sodding bounty hunters sent by that Ravager scum, Magnussen, no doubt. The man really did not know when to give up.

"What was that you were saying?" Molly asked sweetly as she righted the ship and watched while John blasted the enemy craft into a mass of exploding gasses. He might be a ball of rage wrapped up in fur, but he was an amazing shot, no question about it.

How Mary could stand being married to the little guy was a mystery to them all, but one never questioned the tastes of a former assassin and 'daughter' of Thanos.

Instead of answering Molly's question, Sherlock merely grinned, leaned over her seat, and pressed a quick kiss to her lips while everyone - Molly included, once her mouth was free - gaped at him. "What?" he asked, looking around innocently. "I'm just as attracted to her as she is to me, I thought you all claimed to be observant?"

"Yes, yes, brother dear, it's lovely that you finally got your head out of your arse and acted on that attraction," Mycroft drawled as he poked his head around the corner of the entrance to the flight desk. "But can we possibly get on with retrieving the cargo Magistrar Lestrade hired us to find? The man is paying us an incredible sum for the Borgia Pearl, after all."

"Yeah, bro, we're on it," was Sherlock's cheeky response. "And when we get to his court and present it to him, then maybe that lovely, intelligent spymaster of his will finally give you the time of day. What was her name, again? Andrea?"

"Anthea," Mycroft corrected him with a scowl - and very pink cheeks. "And for you information, she's already given me far more than just 'the time of day'." He sniffed haughtily. "If you're done canoodling with our pilot and get this bucket moving, perhaps we'll make it back to Baskerville in time for the birth of your niece."

He vanished as suddenly as he'd appeared, leaving the remaining crew gaping at one another…except his brother. Sherlock slumped into his seat with a pout. "Git," he grumbled. "I should have known he'd find some way to make the moment I finally let Molly know that I love her all about _him_."


	26. Sucker Bet

_cumbercougars asked: Sherlock and Molly secretly pining without realizing everybody else knows. For mini crack fic._

 _A/N: Another pick-me-up prompt request. Rated K+. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Fifty quid says he cracks first."

Lestrade slapped the money down on the table. "You're on, Donovan. You don't know Sherlock Holmes like I do. He'll never crack, he'd rather die than admit he wants her!"

 _*Thirty seconds later, as Sherlock is admitting to Molly how much he wants to be with her and desperately begging her to forgive him for lying about the "I love you" confession*_

Sally gave her boss a smug look as she pocketed the cash. "So, what was that you were saying, Detective Inspector?"

"I was saying," Lestrade replied with a great deal of dignity, "that was the best fifty quid I ever spent." He grinned at the now-snogging couple at the next table. "And," he added gleefully as he glanced back at Donovan, "because I am now officially broke, it's only fair that the winner pay for the next round to toast the happy couple!"

 _(Sally's protest was token at best, especially since she'd known it was a sucker bet – and so had Lestrade.)_


	27. The Tall and the Small of It

_Anonymous asked: sherlolly with "height difference kisses where one person has to bend down and the other is on their tippy toes"_

 _A/N: Welcome to another edition of "Stories with summaries and titles longer than they are." Rated K, enjoy!_

* * *

"Molly, you're ridiculously short. I'm going to get you a special Kissing Stool to stand on."

"Sherlock, it's not that I'm ridiculously short, it's that _you're_ ridiculously tall! I'm going to, to– make you sit down when I kiss you!"

"Now that, Molly Hooper, is an excellent idea– care to sit on my lap now and give it a go?"


	28. The Cobbler's Children

_writingwife-83 asked: Here's a domestic sherlolly silliness ask for you- I'm sure most of us married folk could name some type of procrastination our spouse is notorious for. My husband's is carpentry around the house. (He's a carpenter. Oh the irony lol.) So my actual ask is what does Sherlock always tend to put off doing that drives Molly nuts?_

* * *

"Sherlock, why? Why won't you just do it and get it over with? It's not like you're incapable, you do it all the time!"

"Molly, I told you - my deductive abilities aren't just some silly parlor trick, they're important skills I've honed over the decades to help solve important cases - oh, very well. Fine. Put the movie in and I'll deduce the ending so you can decide if it's worth watching or not!"

* * *

 _A/N: The title comes from the old saying "The cobbler's children go unshod". Just some silliness. And thus endeth the latest round of flash fics for my favorite ship. Hope you've enjoyed them, and thank you as always for your lovely reviews!_


	29. Cupcake

_A/N: A birthday gift for_ _the-sapphiresky_ _. Rated K+, enjoy! (And thank you to my readers as always for your marvelous, marvelous reviews!)_

* * *

"Cupcake? What the hell is a _cupcake_?"

Molly sighed and turned around, showing Sherlock the plate of delicious confections she'd whipped up for Rosie's birthday. "These, Sherlock, are cupcakes."

He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. "You're having me on," he accused. It was his new favorite term, having picked it up from both John and Greg over the years. "That," he added haughtily as he pointed at the one with pink icing, "is a _fairy_ cake. No cups involved."

"No fairies involved either," she pointed out with a bit of an edge. "In case you've forgotten, Rosie's new friend just moved here from America and our goddaughter would like us to use some American phrases to make her feel more at home. Especially since the poor thing is missing her father something terrible."

Sherlock had the grace to look somewhat abashed, although of course it couldn't last. "If her mum's new job is going to keep her in London for the next five years, as John's already told us, then she'll have to get used to–fine," he interrupted himself as Molly gave him the Look. The one that told him without words how very Not Good he was being. "Cupcakes."

Without asking, he reached out and plucked the one he'd been pointing to off the plate and essentially shoved the entire thing into his mouth. "Noft badf," he pronounced with a gooey grin as Molly glared at him.

She was still chasing him around the flat when John, Rosie, and Rosie's new friend and her mother came round for the tea they'd been invited to.

Molly made sure he made up for his rudeness later, after everyone else had gone. Icing may or may not have been involved - this time without cupcakes.


	30. In Which John Watson Thinks He's Funny

_A/N: This K rated fic came about because a) I've been meaning to write a Swedenlolly fic (based on promotions of The Game Is Now) and b) I came up with those two rotten puns that John uses in his first line and decided I had to build a fic around them. Have fun, and as always, thank you for your reviews._

* * *

"D'you have one too? Maybe one that says 'You can't have Sweden without We?' Ooh, or how about, 'Sherlock and Molly put the We in Sweden'?"

Sherlock looked down his nose at his chortling best friend. "I never thought I'd say this - and will deny ever having done so - but even Molly's jokes are better than yours."

"I heard that!" Molly warbled from the kitchen, where she was enthusiastically chopping up vegetables for dinner.

Sherlock winced, John laughed even harder, and Rosie decided to get in on the fun by adding her sweet giggles to the noise filling Molly's flat. The flat to which she and Sherlock had just returned from their 'sex holiday' in Sweden. Well, it hadn't started out that way - more of a case gone wrong and a wilful desire to ignore Mycroft's pleas for assistance on some government matter or other - but since it had ended up that way, with lots of really quite good sex and an impulsive wedding in Stockholm (he'd never hear the end of that from Mummy!), 'sex holiday' it would forever be referred to.

His blushing - or rather, smirking - bride entered the sitting room, pausing to chuck Rosie under her chin and admire the little t-shirt that had started John's current excursion into misplaced mirth. "I told you it was a mistake to buy it," Sherlock grumbled as Molly wandered his way, perching on the arm of the sofa next to where he was currently sprawled.

"It's perfect and I love it and Rosie loves it - don't you sweetie," she paused to coo, "and that's the end of that," she said firmly, softening her decree with a smile and sweet kiss on his lips.

John stopped chortling, although the fatuous expression on his face was almost as bad. But Rosie continued to giggle, babble, clap her hands, and otherwise remind Sherlock that no matter how idiotic her father's sense of humor, it was all worth it if it made her - and more importantly, her godmother - happy.

Even at the price of a kitschy article of clothing that proudly read "My godparents went to Sweden and all they got me was this lousy t-shirt".

In Swedish.

Ah well. One was never too young to learn a foreign language.


	31. Out of Print

_theemptyquarto on tumblr asked: For the "send me a title and I'll tell you what fic I'd write to it" game, how about "Out of Print."_

 _And this bit of silliness is what I came up with as an actual fic cause the title was too good to waste. Rated K+. Thank you as always for your wonderful reviews and for continuing to follow my crazy contributions to this fandom._

* * *

Molly stared at the three little words that appeared under the title of the book she'd been so desperate to buy. "Oh no," she groaned, pressing her mobile against her forehead. "Now I'll have to spend the rest of my life scouring the internet and used book stores for a copy! I'll never find out the ending!"

She sighed and looked unhappily at her ragged paperback copy. The one she didn't realize was missing it's final two chapters until she'd got to the heart-stopping confrontation between the two Victorian foes at the top of the Reichenbach Falls.

With another sigh, she put down both phone and her copy of 'The Art of Deduction' by the mysterious and reclusive W.S. Holmes. "I really wanted to know how it ended," she said mournfully, staring once again at the book.

The sound of a throat being cleared behind her made her jump. She turned and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway to her office. "Oh, hi," she said, I didn't see you - did you need something?"

"Actually," he said, sounding almost - hesitant? Embarrassed? Molly's eyebrows shot up in astonishment as he ducked his head and fiddled with his mobile. "Actually, I, erm, couldn't help overhearing about your little dilemma and I thought I could, ah, help you with it."

She smiled and jumped up from her desk. "Oh, do you have a copy?" Then she gave a little shake of her head and a giggle. "Oh, of course you must! Your blog name - did you take it from the book? Is the author a relative of yours?"

"In a manner of speaking." Molly gazed at him blankly. "It's me, Molly," he explained with a sigh. "I'm W.S. Holmes. And that," he nodded at the book lying on her desk, "was the result of a rather vivid hallucinatory experience of mine. Which is why," he added with some asperity, "Mycroft made sure it was taken off the shelves shortly after it was published. Something to do with not rewarding me for taking drugs. Not that I want to be rewarded for that sort of thing," he added hastily, "but it was rather well received by the dozen or so people who were actually able to buy it before it was pulled. May I ask - where you got that copy?"

Molly's head was spinning. The idea of Sherlock as an author - and quite a good one, if this mystery was anything to go by - was a bit hard to believe. "Did John ghostwrite it? Or help you?" she couldn't help asking.

Sherlock looked insulted. "No," he said with a definite sniff. "It was all me." Instantly his expression turned to one of anxiety. "You, er, really liked it, then? You really do want to know how it ends?"

"Well, yes, of course I do," Molly replied. "I mean, I'm disappointed that it came about because of drugs, Sherlock but - yes, I absolutely want to know– oh!" she exclaimed, interrupting herself with wide eyes. "Is that…are Ben and Morris…that's you and Moriarty? And Megan is…"

"You," Sherlock replied with a nod. His voice was calm but his eyes were still anxiously scanning her face. "And it ends rather differently than the actual Reichenbach case." He took a step closer, reaching out to touch her cheek. "Shall I…show you?"

Molly nodded, her eyes falling shut as he leaned down and kissed her.

Like Megan and Ben, eventually she and Sherlock managed their own happily ever after.


	32. SOL

_Anon on tumblr said: Taking off from 1 of ur earlier posts, do u have any hc(s) about how Sherlock finally put an end 2 his correspondence with The Woman post TFP, because I agree with u. I say if he and Molly are gonna be together romantically, then there's no way in HELL Sherlock should pull a Jawn Wats0n and text/see someone else on the side. 100% NOPE to that!_

 _My response: Personally I like the HC I've seen where Sherlock sends Irene pics of him and Molly together, she congratulates him and breaks off the correspondence himself - and he at the very least changes her text tone (because I think, based on their past, that if she were in trouble and asked him for help, he would probably help her and Molly would probably encourage him to do so…something like this…)_

 _And thus this slightly T-rated story was born (mostly for using the S word. Enjoy, and thank you as always for your marvelous reviews!)_

* * *

He frowned at the phone. "What's wrong?" Molly asked, laying a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up at her. "It's Irene," he said, trying to sound dismissive. Uncaring. "She's got herself into a spot of trouble and expects me to fly all the way to Caracas to help her out."

"Well of course you should," Molly said instantly.

He frowned at her. "I didn't think you'd want me to, under the circumstances."

Molly frowned back at him. "What circumstances?"

He gestured toward her and back at himself. "You know, because you and I are…together?" He made what started off as a statement into a question by the end.

Molly leaned down and kissed him. "Darling," she said, an endearment she usually only employed when he was being stupid about something, "us being together has nothing to do with helping out someone you care about. Would you even think twice if it was John? Or Greg?"

"Of course not," he replied, pulling her down onto his lap. She giggled and looped her arms around his neck as he held her close. "But I never slept with either of them. Aren't you supposed to be insanely jealous of past lovers? Or worried that I won't be able to resist temptation in the heat of the moment?"

"Nope," Molly replied, popping the P obnoxiously, a bad habit she'd picked up from him (the only one, thankfully, and only since they'd finally admitted their love for one another at his sister's hands). "I trust you, Sherlock. Just like you trust me. You have no problem with me seeing Tom for lunch now and then, so why should I have a problem with you saving Irene's life once in a while? As long as she doesn't make a habit of it, of course."

"If she does, then I'll just have to disclose her whereabouts to Mycroft and let him handle things," Sherlock replied, understanding instantly what Molly was saying. If this was some sort of game for Irene to try and finagle her way back into his life - and bed - then she was…what was that American saying?

Oh yes. _Shit out of luck._ There was only ever going to be one woman in his life, his bed, and his heart from now on, and that was the one currently snogging him.

Irene Adler might be The Woman but she would never be HIS woman.


	33. The Last Time

_A/N: I took this from a list of angsty prompts (hint: the one I picked is the first line of the fic), but I kinda-sorta de-angsted it by the end. Rated K. Thank you as always for your lovely reviews and for continuing to follow and favorite my stories.  
_

* * *

"This will be the last time you lie to me."

"I've never lied to you, Molly. Ever."

She saw the truth in his eyes, even through the angry, hurt tears clouding her vision.

"Never?" she whispered, taking a single step forward.

"Never," he promised, taking a step toward her as well, so that the space between them was almost nil. "I never lied, no matter what I said, whether it was a compliment to get you to help me or a deduction based on my own jealousy."

She knew exactly what he was talking about, touched her hair unconsciously as she recalled the side-part and braid combo he'd complimented her in the first instance, and the silver bow she'd donned in the second. "So you meant it when you said…"

"I've meant everything I've ever said to you, Molly Hooper," he replied in a low voice. "My motives might not always have been pure, or sincere, but the words were always true. Especially…" He paused, shut his eyes, then opened them again and reached out to carefully tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "especially when I said…"

"I love you," they said together.

And Molly knew, as he softly pressed his lips to hers, that truer words had never been spoken.


	34. Canon-Schmanon

_A/N: An anonymous idiot on tumblr sent this ask the December before S4 came out: Hello, a TJLC-er here. I was sitting here laughing at the sherlolly tag when I found some of your "metas" as you so naively call them. I must say they are some of the most disappointing I have ever read. Really, we TJLCers spoil ourselves with our fantastic writers. Your arguments are weakly supported and frankly full of fallacies. Truly you have the analytical insight of an 8th grader. Have fun in S4 when Johnlock gets canon, Bye!_

 _Here is the (Cracky, Rated K+, Warstany) response I posted. Enjoy, and thank you as always for your marvelous reviews!_

* * *

Sherlock gave it a critical look. "Are you, er, sure about this, John?"

His best friend patted the bronze statuette proudly. "Yup. Mary let slip that she went to Fort Pulaski as a kid and was really impressed by the cannons. So I had this one shipped here specially from their gift shop."

Sherlock glanced over at Molly, who shrugged and grimaced as if to say, who are we to burst his balloon? Unfortunately John caught the look. "What?" he demanded, clutching the cannon closer. "What did that mean, that look?"

With another glance at Sherlock, Molly walked over and laid a hand on John's arm. "John, you know Mary loves you, right? And you love her?" He nodded warily. "Well, the thing is…she also mentioned how glad she is not to have any reminders of her old life around, now that's she's made a new one she loves so much better. So if it was me, speaking strictly as a friend…"

"…you don't think Mary needs the cannon to know how much I love her," John sighed. He gave it one last, regretful look, then passed it over to Sherlock. "How about you, mate? Fancy a cannon?"

"Nah," Sherlock said, tossing it onto the sofa and pulling a giggling Molly into his arms. "I'll take a real relationship over a fake cannon any day."

John grinned as they kissed…but wondered what the heck to get his wife for their anniversary now.


	35. One Year Ago Today

_A/N: Written for the two year anniversary of the "I love you" scene from TFP. Rated K+ and nothing but fluff. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Happy anniversary, darling."

Sherlock scrunched his face up in an expression of confusion worthy of John Watson at his most uncomprehending. "Molly, we've been together 147 days, and although I marginally accept the sentimentality behind a 6-month anniversary, we're still a bit short of -"

She stopped the flow of words with a soft, lingering kiss. A most welcome way of silencing him, to be sure, but he still had questions.

Well, one question. "So...not our 147 day anniversary, then."

She shook her head and let him pull her down so she was sitting on his lap, warm in the embrace of his arms. "Nope. Guess again, genius consulting detective."

He ignored her gentle teasing, frowning a bit as he cast his mind backward. "It's not the anniversary of when we first me, that's still three weeks four days away...the first autopsy I watched you perform was on that same day, so that's not it…"

Molly's brow quirked in amusement as he continued to mumble to himself. "You remember the first autopsy you watched me perform?"

"Mm, yes, Mrs. Davenport, 97, suspected poisoning turned out to be an-"

"Aneurysm," they chorused, smiling at one another in fond remembrance. "It was only the second autopsy I'd performed entirely on my own, without supervision. I was so nervous…"

"It didn't show," Sherlock chimed in. "Your hands and voice were steady, your movements absolutely precise...I rather doubt you remembered Lestrade and I were even observing once you made the initial Y-incision…"

"Oh, I always knew when you were there," Molly assured him with a fond smile. She reached up and ruffled his perfectly coiffed curls. "Always." Her smile turned mischievous. "So. What anniversary falls on this date, Sherlock? It's a fairly important one, at least to me."

A quick glance told him she was still teasing, rather than hurt or worried. Something important to both of them, that fell on this exact date… "Ah," he said softly as it finally clicked.

"Ah indeed," Molly murmured. She wiggled herself into a more comfortable position, which raised all kinds of delightful possibilities in Sherlock's mind - and trousers - and moved her fingers away from his hair to stroke his cheek. "A year ago today we both said it."

"I love you," Sherlock said. "You made me say it first, say it like I meant it…"

"And you did," Molly finished as he pulled her face closer to his and kissed her like his very life depended on it.

One way or another, she always saved him.


	36. The Time We'll End You Started Things

_Holidaysat221b Prompt of the Day - 3/8/19: Molly's school reunion – Sherlock assumes he'll be needed to help Molly show everyone up. The catch: Molly's been a beloved peer, so it's him who gets the obligatory "you hurt her, we'll end you". :) - mychakk_

 _A/N: Rated K+ at most. I hope you enjoy this one, folks!_

* * *

He'd agreed to be her date on the assumption she needed a pretend boyfriend to show up her former fellow students. He'd further assumed (well, deduced, really, but under the circumstances that was quibbling) that she'd been belittled as a teen - they used to call her 'Little Miss Perfect' after all. He'd read her blog, short-lived though it had been.

He'd made deductions based on those assumptions, shown up looking his very best, making sure to match the bright purple of her dress with both his bespoke shirt and the flowers in the boutonniere he'd bought to match the wrist corsage he'd gifted her with. If anyone was going to try to make fun of 'Mousy Molly' Hooper tonight, well...they'd find themselves on the receiving end of a deduction or two that would send them fleeing from the venue in tears, or his name wasn't Sherlock Holmes!

Oh how wrong he'd been. There was a saying his parents had picked up whilst in the States…what was it? Ah yes: "Never assume because it makes an ass out of you and me."

Only in this case, there was only one ass, and its name was William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

"So, you're the hat detective, yeah? Molly's told us about you," Derrick 'Ricky' Lamberton was saying. Footballer in his youth, gone to fat, on his second - no third - marriage, although the trophy wife wasn't much younger than he was, unusual but not unheard of. The typical bully type, Sherlock's own school experiences told him, and he was more than ready to cut this one down, but his next words stopped Sherlock's in his throat where they threatened to choke him.

"Listen, Hat Man, I don't care how posh and famous you are," Ricky said, jabbing a meaty finger at Sherlock's chest. "You hurt our Molls, and we'll end you. Ain't that right, Bevvy?"

His third wife, one Beverly Lamberton (nee Anderson as he'd eventually discover, not that it mattered much) nodded vigorous agreement to her husband's threat. "Yeah, you may be everything she ever said you were, but we know Molly and we can read between the lines," she said shrilly. Her botoxed face couldn't manage much expression but he could hear the sincerity in her voice. "She's been mad about you since you two met but you're only here because she wanted to show you off, not as a real date, we figured that out early on! Yeah," she added at his (presumably thunderstruck, even if he couldn't see his own face) expression. "You're not the only one who can do deductions, Mr. Know-It-All!"

Her loud words had drawn attraction from other former schoolmates, who crowded round the three of them and appeared more than ready to join in on the (entirely unexpected and really, quite undeserved!) haranguing. "Yeah, you better be nicer to our Molls," someone else chimed in. "She deserves better than you," another one called out. "Why you haven't gotten your head out of your arse and realized what a prize you're missing out on, I'll never know!" another voice added.

"Unless you're really gay?" That was the footballer again, but this time his voice was less belligerent. "Zat it, you gay? All those stories about you and your flatmate true, then?"

Sherlock was once again forestalled from ripping into the man by Third Wife 'Bevvy'. "Well if he is, he needs to let her know so she can just move on!" she declared, shaking her head vehemently in agreement with her own words. "Just like your brother Tony did, took him long enough to figure himself out, but damn at least he let the girl he was dating know as soon as he did!"

"Yeah, Tony always was a good sort," one of the onlookers said in agreement, and to Sherlock's amazement, Ricky-the-ex-footballer's chest puffed out in pride at hearing his gay brother praised in that manner. Not at all what Sherlock had expected - not that ANY of this was - but it did make him do some rapid reevaluating of the situation in which he found himself.

"Not gay," he said before anyone else could go on the attack. "No matter what the papers might like to imply, I've never been in a romantic relationship with John Watson. I've never been in a romantic relationship with anyone," he found himself admitting, even as he discreetly looked around the room, trying to spot Molly. Surely she should have come back from the ladies by now?

Nope, nowhere in sight. Damn, he could really use a rescue about now, she always saved him, and this time he was in more desperate need than when he'd been shot!

That thought brought him up short; why hadn't he realized it before, how much he depended on Molly's good judgement, her sensible viewpoint, her adorable little smile… "I do love her," he blurted out, staring at Ricky and Bevvy and the others still crowded around them. "But I'm not, she's so much better than I am…"

"Pfft," Bevvy said with a disdainful roll of her eyes. "Then tell her, you git. Get off your arse, tell her you love her, and be good enough for her."

"Yeah, you can do it," Ricky added encouragingly. "She wouldn't waste her time on someone unless they were worth it - hell, she helped me figure out I was married to the wrong woman after my first wife passed, helped me get back in touch with Bevvy, here-" he gave his wife a doting look - "and it was just like back in secondary school when she helped me figure out maths. She knew I wasn't just some dumb jock, like everyone else thought!"

"Yeah, if Molly thinks you're worth her time, then you're worth her time," one of the others chimed in. "She's like that, our Molls. Good hearted and caring but ready to call you out if you do something awful, like that time I got into heroin." The speaker - successful businessman, most likely in banking, unmarried but with several children by various relationships - gave Sherlock a sheepish look. "She slapped the hell out of me when I showed up to our first reunion high as kite, reminded me of what I had to lose - I already had three little nippers by then, even if none of their mums wanted to stay with me - and found me the right rehab clinic. Been off the sweeties ever since," he added proudly.

A smattering of applause rose from the crowd. "What's going on, then? What am I missing?" a cheerful, much-missed voice called out from the back of the crowd.

Like something in a movie, the group parted, and there she was: Molly Hooper, looking radiant in her bright purple dress with her hair pulled up into a loose mass of curls held in place by an equally bright purple-and-yellow Alice band. "Sherlock, have you been deducing?" she asked, still smiling.

"No," he replied solemnly, taking a step forward and reaching out to her. "Being deduced, actually. Thanks to your Secondary School Fan Club, here." He nodded at the crowd. "They've made me realize a few things that I would very much like to discuss with you, Molly Hooper. In private," he added, glancing around to make sure her peers - no, surely they could be categorized as friends, even if they only saw her once a year? - got the hint.

With smiles and murmurs of 'good luck, posh boy' they melted away, until only Ricky and Bevvy were left between him and Molly.

"Remember what I said," Ricky said, once again jabbing Sherlock in the chest with his forefinger - although this time his expression was much more friendly. "You hurt her, and we'll end you."

"Ricky!" Molly cried out, her cheeks flushing a becoming shade of red. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry, Ricky's always been like a big brother to me, a bit overprotective, even when I don't need him to be," she added with a severe look at her former classmate.

"No, it's fine," Sherlock rushed to reassure her. "It's all…fine," he added, his voice softening as he moved the few steps remaining between them, tucked her arm through his, and began guiding the pair of them towards the main doors. "Sometimes you need a good kick in the arse to dislodge your own head."

With those words, grinning at Molly's confused expression, he swept her out into the warm summer night, finally ready to acknowledge to Molly how true those three little words he'd been forced to say all those months ago were far truer than either of them had realized.


	37. For Her Comfort

_Anonymous on tumblr asked: Fancy a bit of prompt? Yes? Sherlolly testing out various condoms, for science. Being a nerdy couple they are, they don't miss out the chance to be sciencey._

 _A/N: Sorry anon but this ended up being more T than M, if that was what you were aiming for. Hope you like it anyway!_

* * *

"This one says 'ribbed for her comfort', maybe we should test that one out first?"

Molly snorted a laugh as Sherlock held the box of condoms out for her perusal. "Mm, maybe," she agreed, her voice just as mock-serious as his had been. "For science and all."

"Exactly," he agreed, even as he swept her into his arms, causing her to burst into giggles as she looped her arms around his neck. "After all, can't have the test subject too uncomfortable for the rest of the experiment!"

As Molly glanced over her shoulder at the dozens of condom boxes spread over the sitting room table, she couldn't help but agree!


	38. Flipping the Switch

_A/N: Written for Sherlolly Appreciation Week (SAW) 2019. Enjoy this very M rated little foray into dom/sublock with a Domme Molly :)_

* * *

"We'll start with the riding crop."

Sherlock looked up at Molly, quirking an eyebrow. "So, bad day, was it?"

"Bedroom, Sherlock. Now," she barked, shedding clothing as she stalked past him, heading for the room in question.

He rose to his feet in an instant, already hard and practically squirming with anticipation. Molly generally preferred that he take the dominant role in their sexual relations, but when she was in the mood to domme him, oh, it was delicious! Far too delicious for him to even think about disobeying.

By the time he reached the bedroom door, arms laden with her discarded clothing, Molly was entirely naked and taken her hair down from the elastic holding it in place. "Strip," she snapped, then sat down at the chair in front of her vanity, hands folded in her lap as she waited.

He didn't make her wait for long, just long enough to carefully lay her clothing on the other chair and maneuver himself so that he was behind her. Letting her watch in the mirror as he removed his dressing gown, the white button-up he wore beneath it, his bespoke charcoal grey trousers and silky black boxers, folding them carefully and laying them atop her own neatly folded pile of clothes.

Once naked, he reached over her shoulder, fingers resting questioningly on the back of her hairbrush. With a curt nod to indicate her permission, he lifted it and began stroking carefully through the cinnamon tresses of her long, soft hair.

Five minutes later, with her temper somewhat soothed by the grooming ritual, found Sherlock eagerly lying on his stomach on their bed, arms and legs in a spreadeagle position. No need for bindings; he wouldn't budge an inch until she was finished with him. As the riding crop came down on the fleshiest parts of his buttocks he let out a low groan of arousal. His Molly was a master at eliciting just the right amount of pain to bring his pleasure to its fullest peak.

Two more blows to his buttocks and he heard the thump of the crop dropping to the floor. "Get up."

Moving carefully, he did as commanded, turning to see that she'd braced herself against the door, both hands at shoulder height, legs parted. She wore nothing but the pair of black Louboutins he'd gotten her for Christmas, the ones that added a full three inches to her height - and made it so, so much easier for him to fuck her the way she liked it best when in this kind of a mood. The kind of mood that demanded release that only he could give her - and very happy he was to do so.

"Fuck me hard, Sherlock," she said, but her voice had softened to more of a plea than a demand.

Either way, he was happy to comply; moving somewhat gingerly due to the still-painful muscles of his gluteus maximus, he came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled at her throat. He cupped her breasts, tweaking the nipples with just enough pressure to bring a moan of pleasure from her lips, then slid his fingers down to her hips so he could anchor himself as he thrust into her sweet, warm pussy.

As he fucked them both to completion, as he fucked away the cares and trials of the day, Sherlock had only one thought: one thing about Molly's bad days was that they almost always led to very, very good nights for the two of them.


	39. Gift Swap

_A/N: Written for day 2 of Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2019. K+ rated swaplock take on That Christmas from ASiB. Enjoy!_

* * *

"You always say such horrible things."

She did, didn't she? The realization gave her pause. Why was that, exactly? What was it about him, that set her off like this?

"I am sorry. Forgive me," was all she could find to say, stepping close as he shut his eyes as if in anticipation of more painful words - and kept them tightly shut as she stood on the tips of her toes in order to brush her lips across his cheek. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes," she murmured

The sound of a masculine groan of pleasure cut through the thick silence of the room; in a panic, Sherlock's eyes shot open as he stared from Mary to Mary's latest bit of eye-candy (Jason? Jeffrey?) to Donovan (Sandy? Sasha?) to 'Not Your Housekeeper' Greg Lestrade. "That, that wasn't me!" he squeaked out, his voice ridiculously high, not at all the usual smooth baritone she was used to hearing.

"No, it was me, my phone," she said distractedly, holding up her mobile. At last, the case was moving forward! Without a second thought for any of the others, she headed toward her bedroom in order to read whatever tantalizing tidbit Jim Moriarty had for her this time.

On the threshold of the kitchen, however, she paused. Turned back. Held up the gift and locked eyes with Sherlock. "Thank you," she said. "Whatever it is-" she already knew what it was, a 17th century German treatise on beekeeping, one she very much looked forward to reading "-thank you."

Then she left the room, mind once again fully occupied by the case. Jim Moriarty was the key to unlocking the secrets Irene Adler had, to destroy the consulting criminal's web.

She paused again upon closing her bedroom door behind her, looking once more at the carefully wrapped gift she held in her hands. _Dearest Molly, love Sherlock xxx._

Once this case was resolved, she decided as she carefully set the gift on her dressing table, she would make some time to have a cup of coffee with Sherlock Holmes.

And prove to everyone - herself most of all - that Molly Hooper, Consulting Detective, wasn't just a machine.


	40. For the Sake of Law and Order

_A/N: Continuing on my (unintended) theme of swap!lock, here is my Tuesday addition to Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2019. Rated K+, dark and kinda angsty. I hope you like it!_

* * *

"Are you okay? And don't just say you are."

Molly twisted her head round in order to meet Sherlock's gaze, a wry smile gracing her lips. "What's next, O great Consulting Detective? Going to compliment me on my lips and breasts?"

Sherlock blew out a sigh as he nodded for Donovan and Lestrade to take the handcuffed woman away. "You knew this was how it would play out, Molly. You knew pretending to fall in love with me, to date me, would only end one way." He met her eyes and said softly, "For the sake of law and order, Molly, I suggest you avoid all attempts at a future relationship."

"I doubt I'll have many opportunities to snog law enforcement types in prison," she replied as Sally placed her hand on her head, preparatory to placing her in the back of the police car. Molly resisted, only long enough to lock eyes with Sherlock once again. "For the record, Sherlock...I wasn't pretending."

Those three words rocked him back on his heels as if she'd slapped him three times in the face, and he stood for a long time after the car had vanished from view.

"You all right, mate?" John asked, touching him on the arm to get his attention.

"No," Sherlock admitted, finally turning away from the dark road down which Molly Hooper, brilliant criminal mastermind and equally brilliant pathologist, had just vanished. "And I don't think I will be for a long time, either."


	41. Can't Do This

_A/N: Rated T. For Day 5 of Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2019, Sherlolly quotes: "But you can't do this again, can you?" and "You're most certainly going to die, so we need to focus."_

* * *

" _But you can't do this again, can you?"_

" _You're most certainly going to die, so we need to focus."_

The words echoed through his mind, going round and round, making him dizzy. Dizzier, actually, since his head was already spinning.

Her voice, his own voice, mixed together in his mind - who was he? Who was she? Not important, she was there to help, that was all he needed to remember.

 _You can't do this again._

 _No,_ he tried to say. _I can't do this again._ But no words left his lips, just a croak that made his captor cackle with laughter.

 _I can't do this again. I can't, not without your help._

 _You're most certainly going to die, so we need to focus._

Focus. Yes. Focus on the important details. Don't get caught up in the larger, painful, far too overwhelming larger picture.

 _You're most certainly going to die._

 _But you can't do this again._

No. No, God dammit, no. He was not going to do this again.

 _You're most certainly going to do this again._

 _But you can't die._

"No." The word made it past the pain in his throat. His eyes snapped open. His assailant smiled, so certain he was winning, hands around his prisoner's throat, squeezing, squeezing... _going to die...certainly can't...you're most certainly going to do this again!_

"Damn right." A whisper of sound, but it wasn't sound he needed to focus on, but feelings. Not emotions, but the feel of the other man's hands around his throat, his fingers digging in, the oxygen leaving his lungs.

Molly Hooper wouldn't be very happy if he allowed this two-bit Moriarty wanna-be kill him.

There it was, his focus. Molly's face, her voice, her form in his mind, and his hands found leverage, his legs, his body became the weapon he needed, just long enough to turn the tables, to free his throat, to throw his attacker off his body and roll onto his side, his stomach, climb-crawl to his knees and then, and then…

"I'm fine," he tried to say as John and Lestrade burst into the room. And he was, especially when he saw Molly Hooper rush in right behind them. Her terrified expression turned to one of relief, and he reached up to clasp her hand as she dropped to her knees by his side.

"You stupid, stupid man," she whispered as tears of relief slipped down her cheeks and splashed onto his. He tried to laugh, coughed, cursed, and settled for resting his head on her lap while John and Lestrade took care of the boring post-case details.

He most certainly wasn't going to die.

And as soon as he could focus, he would reassure her of that fact. Today, and every day for the rest of their lives together.


	42. Echoes of the Past

_For Day 6 of Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2019, Rated K - Molly: "No idea why people believe you incapable of human emotion." / Sherlock: "I'm worried about you, Molly, you seem very stressed."_

* * *

"I'm worried about you, Molly," Sherlock said. "You seem very stressed." A deliberate echo of words once spoken semi-humorously, under circumstances that had been so very dire. The stressed and the dying, both of them in a horrible place after Mary's loss and both trying so very hard to cope, to do what they could to help John and Rosie - each in a very different fashion. Hers, perhaps, more healthy, but his equally valid in the end.

But since he was deliberately evoking past conversations… "No idea why people believe you incapable of human emotion," Molly said affectionately as she raised herself up on the tips of her toes in order to give him a quick peck on the lips. "Thanks for noticing that I'm stressed, love - but really, you need to get to the altar so I can meet you there." She flashed him a quick smile, held up her veil and bouquet. "Meena will be right back to help me get these sorted - we forgot the stupid hairpins and the ribbon from your Mum - and then voila! Stress all gone."

His lips quirked in an answering smile as he adjusted his tie and ran a smoothing hand over his temporarily tamed curls. "See you in a half an hour, almost Mrs. Holmes."

Molly giggled and made shooing motions. "See you then, almost Mr., uh, Holmes. Almost husband!" She grinned, triumphant at having turned her stumble into something that actually made sense.

He chuckled and allowed her to chase him out of the room, but not until after stealing another, more lingering kiss from his bride-to-be. The daughter his parents had always deserved - but under the circumstances, he could be forgiven for his happiness that Eurus and not Molly was the blood relative.


	43. Escape Clause

_A/N: For Day 7 of Sherlolly Appreciation Week, a follow-up to my Day 3 story_ _For the Sake of Law and Order (with a criminal Molly). Last story for SAW 19, woot! Rated K+._

 _Additional TFP dialogue from the transcripts posted by_ _Arianedevere on livejournal_

* * *

She wasn't surprised to see the visitor on the other side of the glass, not really. After all, she'd shocked him with her confession on the night of her arrest. She'd shocked herself as well; not because she hadn't realized the truth of the words, but because she'd long since resolved never to tell him. To let him wonder, or dismiss her as the liar she was.

But the words had slipped out...no, she'd never in her adult life just let something 'slip out'. No, she'd made a conscious choice. A decision.

She'd told him the truth. That she really did love him.

And now here he was, six months later, a month shy of her trial, to do what? Tell her he believed her, tell her he didn't believe her - to speak to her about something else entirely? She couldn't imagine what - as a witness for the prosecution, they had nothing more to say to one another.

As a bitter ex-lover...well. Who knew? His expression was resolute, his chin firm and lips tight, but other than that she could read nothing of his intentions.

Only one way to find out, then.

She lifted her hand to the phone hanging on the metal strut between the reinforced, shatterproof glass that divided them, and held it to her ear. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Hello, Molly." They studied one another, neither face giving anything away, and even though it meant he won, she spoke first.

"To what do I owe the honor of this visit? Come to wrest more information out of me? I've already told you I'll not confess to anything." She gave him a tight-lipped smile. "The burden of proof will remain squarely on the prosecution's shoulders."

"Molly, I just want you to do something very easy for me," he cut in, "and not ask why."

She studied him warily. What was he playing at? Was this one of his games? If so, she was tired of playing - probably why she'd gotten careless enough to allow herself to be caught - and wasted no time in telling him so. "Is this one of your stupid games?"

He shook his head, locking his gaze with hers. "No, it's not a game. I ... need you to help me."

She felt her senses sharpen; something else was going on here, but what?

"I need you to do something for me. It's very important. I can't say why, but I promise you it is."

"I'm not an experiment, Sherlock," she said, her tone warning but her gaze questioning.

"No, you're not," he agreed quietly. "And neither was our relationship, I understand that now. I was just a means to an end, even if you did say three words for me once without me asking you."

 _Means. End. Three._

Her heart leapt, but she kept her expression wary, for any prying eyes that might be watching them. He remembered her code, and if he was saying what she thought he was saying… "What?" she asked. "What do you need me to do for you?"

"I need you to just tell the truth. When you're on the stand, tell the truth, don't wait until it's too late to help yourself. I promise you, it's the best thing you could do for yourself. Can you do that for me?"

She tilted her head to one side, still holding his gaze, then gave a tiny nod. Not agreeing to what he'd ostensibly told her, but showing her understanding of what he was really saying.

He nodded back as well, relief in his eyes he didn't bother to hide, and why should he? He'd apparently gotten what he wanted, and as he rose to leave, hanging up the phone, Molly watched.

 _Truth. Stand. Wait._

She hid a tiny smile as she hung up her phone and waited to be escorted back to her cell.

Sherlock Holmes had just told her that she was never going to have to stand trial.

He had a plan to break her out.

' _Means.'_

They would be together.

' _End.'_

That he still loved her, despite knowing who and what she was.

' _Three.'_

That she could trust him.

' _Truth.'_

All she had to do was be patient.

' _Stand.'_

Don't do anything to jeopardize his plan.

' _Wait.'_

Her clever, clever boy. She smiled again as she was escorted to her cell, not hearing the clanging of the door as she sank down onto the hard bed, hugging her secret to her heart. A heart she'd once thought non-existent, dead in her chest even as she continued to live.

She could hardly wait to begin their new life together.


	44. Equally Unlikely

_A/N: dmollyc on tumblr said: I've always thought Mycroft liked Molly. That he thinks very highly of her. I would love to know what Molly and Mycroft were talking about. Probably talking about Sherlock and Anthea talking about them._

 _So I said: Enjoy some Molly & Mycroft bonding time. A follow-up to my story An Unlikely Pair. Rated K._

* * *

"I think they're a bit jealous."

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "You could be right."

Molly grinned at him. "Thanks, but you don't have to pretend you didn't already know it before I said it, Super Genius Brother-in-Law."

Mycroft's expression turned rueful. "I have been attempting to be more diplomatic in my interpersonal relations, to be better at dealing with…people."

"Almost said goldfish," Molly said smugly, and Mycroft couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him.

"Yes, well, ahem," was all he said. His expression became unfocused, turned inward, and Molly reached out a gentle hand and placed it over his.

"It's all right, Mycroft," she said softly. "You were handed a horrible, horrible situation to deal with when you were far too young for such responsibilities. I could murder your Uncle Rudy if he wasn't already dead," she added in brittle tones that she knew would tell Mycroft exactly how serious she was. "Maybe you and your parents didn't exactly cope in the healthiest manner or help Sherlock learn to do so, but to be fair to you all, Eurus learned at the feet of a master when it came to manipulating people."

Mycroft blinked, twice, and gave a slow nod. That was all he was capable of offering by way of thanks, and Molly knew it. She'd become an expert at reading both Holmes brothers over the past year. She'd approved Mycroft's brief but intense relationship with Lady Alicia Smallwood, been supportive when it had inevitably burned out, and been more than happy for him when he finally realized that his PA had been quietly in love with him for over a decade - and that he returned her feelings.

Speaking of feelings… "Maybe we should stop hogging each other's company and remind them that they come first in our lives," Molly said with another small giggle as she saw Sherlock gesture for the bartender to top up his and Anthea's drinks.

"In a minute," Mycroft replied with a rare twinkle in his eyes. He sipped appreciatively at his very expensive brandy and gestured toward Molly's glass of red. "Let them stew a bit longer. After all," he added with a genuine smile - another Blue Moon event! - "it will do them both good to remember that they aren't the only important people in our lives."

To which Molly could only smile and nod in agreement.


	45. Model Behaviour

_A/N: K+ rated prompt fill (prompt by sherlollyandspoilers on tumblr): Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper are rising stars in their modeling agency. While Sherlock's photo shoots are among the highest rated, he is known to be a pain in the ass to work with. Despite his irritating personality, Sherlock happens to exude power and is amazing to photograph. Since starting at the agency Molly has quickly become every photographer's new favorite model to shoot as she is practically a ray of sunshine in personality and looks. Now, Sherlock has been paired with Molly and he is completely out of his element, his powerful facade crumbling._

* * *

Sherlock stared at the photo of the woman he'd been paired with for the runway show. "A petite model?" he said incredulously. "Have you gone completely mental?"

John Watson was used to Sherlock's tantrums and replied calmly, "It's a show about contrasts. Short and tall. Dark and light. Mean and nice," he added in an undertone, but of course his git of a client - and friend whenever the two of them were forced to admit it - heard him.

"Sorry John," Sherlock sneered. "I draw the line at petite _agents_. Not models."

John bristled at this reference to his height - one of the few ways Sherlock could still break his professional facade when at the Hudson Agency - but tried, very hard, not to let it bother him. "Not your call, sorry. You want this show, you work with the model you're given. And you've been given–"

"Molly Hooper, everybody's ray of sunshine," Sherlock interrupted with a glare. " _Fine_. If that's the way it has to be, then fine. But I don't want to hear about how much I outshone her on the runway, afterwards." He smirked.

"We'll just have to see who outshines who," came a quiet, feminine voice from the doorway.

Sherlock and John both looked over in surprise, to find the petite model of whom they'd been speaking (definitely _not_ bickering) leaning against the doorframe. She was wearing a white knit top decorated with rows and rows of tiny black bows, a pencil skirt that flattered her slight frame quite nicely, and a pair of black Louboutin Sky High pumps that added a good six inches to her height - thus bringing her approximately up to Sherlock's cheekbones rather than his shoulders.

For once Sherlock found himself with nothing to say. He'd seen Molly in passing, on her way to and from other shoots, quietly discussing things with her manager and agent and other models - in fact, now that he thought back, he'd never seen her alone. Not once. No, she was always surrounded by people, and those people always seemed…happy?

He frowned. Yes, happy was the right word. Even now, John was smiling at her as he beckoned her to join them and Sherlock could feel his own lips trying to twitch their way out of their current (definitely _not_ petulant) frown as she did so.

"Well, Mr. Holmes?" She came to a stop only a few feet away from him, chin raised defiantly, the long sweep of her chestnut hair still swaying from her quick, determined pace. "Shall we place a little wager on the show, hmm?"

"Dinner," he blurted out, eliciting a puzzled look from Molly and a rather choked sounding noise from John.

He ignored John and focused on Molly. "Dinner," he repeated, more confidently this time, noting with satisfaction the way her pupils dilated as he gave her his best smoulder as he held her gaze. "The winner takes the loser to dinner."

"And who, um, decides on the winner?" she asked, biting at her lower lip in a failed attempt to stop a shy smile from blossoming.

Sherlock waved a hand. "The crowd. The press. The other models and backstage people. You can always tell how well you've done by their reactions, can't you?"

She nodded, the grin finally breaking free even as he allowed himself to wonder how it would feel if she were nibbling on _his_ lip. _Focus Holmes!_ he mentally snapped. _You're only taking a professional interest in this woman, remember? She's challenged you - and you're damn well going to_ win _that challenge._

Then again, he reconsidered as Molly took his proffered hand in hers in a strong, confident handshake that well matched her strong, confident smile, perhaps it didn't really matter who won in the end.

Either way, he deduced that their dinner was going to be absolutely _brilliant_.


	46. The Impossible

_A/N: So this is a follow-up to my story "The Unthinkable", which was written after Avengers: Infinity War. If you haven't seen Avengers: Endgame or aren't a Marvel fan, you might want to skip this one. Rated T, with 100% Johntent. Many thanks to mychakk for reading it over for me._

* * *

John stumbles and catches himself on the edge of the chair. What the hell just happened? One minute he was handing Rosie to Sherlock and the next he's alone in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

No, not alone; he hears Rosie's soft snores coming from the portacrib settled between the end of the sofa and the messy desk. So whatever it was that just blacked his memory - if Sherlock's drugged him he swears he'll kick his arse from here to Sherrinford and back again - at least Rosie's fine.

He starts to move toward the crib, intent on making sure, absolutely sure, that she's fine (where is Sherlock, why did he leave them alone?) when a sound catches his attention. He turns toward the kitchen, and is startled to see Molly Hooper standing there, a sturdy cast-iron frying pan clutched tightly in her hands. "Hey Molly, when did you get here? Where's Sherlock?"

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, but seems unable to speak. He moves toward her, brow crinkled in worry, but a sound from the crib catches his attention; Rosie is fretting and he knows better than to assume she'll cry herself back to sleep. "Don't worry, Daddy's coming," he calls out and hurries over to pick her up.

That is, he starts to hurry over; a loud cry from Molly causes him to stop, to turn to face her again. She's charging toward him, the frying pan held high like a weapon. "Stay away from him!" she screams, and he stumbles back as she swings at him.

"Molly, what the hell-?!" John exclaims.

She swings at him again, missing by a good few inches, then jabs the pan at him, a wild, terrified look in her eyes. "I don't know who you are or what you're playing at, but this, this is _sick_ , how _could_ you - you get _out_ of here, Sherlock is on his way home, he'll be here in minutes you twisted _bastard-_!"

John stares at her, bewildered, stunned by the unreasonableness of her reaction. Maybe he isn't the one who's been drugged, maybe she has? But Sherlock would never do that to her, Molly would kick him to the curb in no uncertain terms were he to try something so idiotic on her.

But he can't come up with any other explanation as she continues to stare wildly at him, keeping herself between him and the crib. "Molly, I just-" he tries, but she's having none of it.

"Get out of this flat," she hisses. "Get out now, before Sherlock gets here and breaks your neck for pulling such a heartless-do you really think you'll be able to fool him? You'd better start running and never stop if you want to live, you bastard!"

She's shaking, but he has no doubt that she'll use that frying pan on him should he try to get nearer to her. But Rosie's starting to cry in earnest now, and he has to try to figure out how to get his daughter away from the apparent madwoman standing in front of him.

The sound of feet pounding up the stairs distracts Molly; he makes a feint to her right and manages to shove her over, shouldering her so that she falls to the floor with a scream. He'll apologize to her later, once he figures out what the _hell_ is going on but right now Rosie needs him.

"Hush Rosie, it's all right, Daddy's here," he says, but the words dry up in his throat as he stares down at the child sitting in the crib, staring up at him through (brown, not blue) eyes swimming with tears. The hair is a tangled mess of (dark brown, not blonde) curls, and the clothing...this isn't his daughter, it's a little boy of the right age and size but definitely not his Rosie.

The pounding footsteps have morphed into a shout. "Molly! Molly, you'll never believe-!"

He turns to face Sherlock, who skids to a stop as he enters the flat, his eyes shining with a strange, unsettling combination of hope and fear. In his arms is a little girl (blonde hair, blue eyes) possibly six or seven years old, her arms tight around his neck. She stares at him blankly (why does that hurt, he's never seen this little girl before) but squirms to be let down when she sees Molly struggling back up.

"Let me down Uncle Lock, Aunt Molly's hurt!" she demands.

Sherlock lets her down without once removing his gaze from John's puzzled, wary face. "It's true," he whispers, taking a step forward. "My god it's true."

He smiles, an open, dazzling smile like none John has ever seen on his lips before. His eyes - is Sherlock Holmes actually _tearing up_?

"Sherlock?" Molly's voice catches his attention; he tears his gaze away from John's with what seems to be a great deal of reluctance, then hurries over to help her to her feet. He then reaches into the crib and lifts the fretting toddler into his arms, and John's eyes widen as he sees the definite resemblance - somehow, impossibly, this little boy looks like a perfect blend of Sherlock and Molly.

"How-?" he starts to ask, beyond bewildered, but is stopped as Sherlock rushes forward and engulfs him in an enormous bear hug, still holding - his? - child.

He's talking, speaking rapidly, but the words make no sense to John. "It's true, Molly, it's true! I wouldn't have believed it but...Nasir's son just reappeared in front of him, at Speedy's, looking exactly the same as he did the day he vanished! And look outside - the trees, the people, Molly! They're back, they're all back!" He lets John go just enough to haul Molly into his embrace. "Even Mrs. Hudson," he whispers, tears still falling from his eyes. "She's making tea, Molly - tea! She has no idea - John," he interrupts himself, once again meeting his gaze. "John, what do you remember? Anything?"

"Uncle Lock." The small voice is firm. "You're not making sense. Why does this man look like my Daddy?"

"Because I am your Daddy." "Because he is your Daddy."

Both men speak at the same time, Sherlock joyfully, John with a growing, stunning sense of shock. Whatever remains, however improbable...this little girl is his Rosie, five years older than when he last saw her, just a few minutes ago. And the toddler is Sherlock and Molly's son and what the _hell_ happened to cause this time shift?

"That's impossible," Molly whispers, but the suspicion and fear are gone, replaced by uncertainty. "Sherlock, it's impossible - isn't it?"

He shakes his head, still smiling so brilliantly it almost hurts. "They're back, Molly. They're all back."

He lets her and John go, gets down on one knee, still holding his son who has stuck a thumb in his mouth and is watching everything through solemn brown eyes. "Rosie, you know about the Vanished, and how your Daddy and your other godmother, Mrs. Hudson, were among them?" She nods. "Well, something happened and they've all been brought back. So yes, this is your Daddy, John Watson."

He gazes up, eyes positively shining. "He's back, they're all back."

Molly stifles a sob, gesturing for Sherlock to hand her their son. "Come on Johnny," she says as she cuddles him close. "Let's...let's get some...oh God, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson! She doesn't know, we have to tell her…"

"She's making tea, she'll bring it up, we'll explain it to her and John at the same time," Sherlock assures her. He kisses her tenderly, puts an equally tender kiss on his son's forehead. _Johnny, they named him after me?_ John thinks, feeling like he might just pass out if he doesn't sit down. Right. Now.

So he does, more or less collapsing onto the straight-backed chair behind him. He's staring at Rosie, can't take his eyes off her, and she's looking back at him with the same forthright, assessing gaze Mary used to have when she was puzzling something out.

"Hi Daddy, I'm glad you're not vanished any more," Rosie says, moving closer and leaning her head on his shoulder.

"So am I, Rosie, so am I," he whispers, leaning his head on top of hers as he waits for Mrs. Hudson and the answer to the myriad questions scrambling madly through his mind.

* * *

 _End(game) note: This is now part of a two-part series called Dust to Dust if anyone wants to know. Thanks as always for your lovely reviews! I hope this one doesn't disappoint._


	47. A Soul Captured on Canvas

_Holidaysat221b Prompt of the Day - 5/8/19_

 _Your soulmate was an artist of centuries ago, and currently, you're an art student at university (or not but you're taking an arts class). Then one day for a field trip, you go to a far-away museum and you just find yourself staring at what was your reflection, wearing different clothes to fit the timeline but it was definitely a split-image of you, on one of the framed displays. (A fanart answer for this prompt would also be awesome!) - noregretsnotearsnoanxieties_

 _So I totally got this wrong, but the prompt was the inspiration for this fic. Rated K+, enjoy!_

* * *

Sherlock felt as if all the breath had been sucked from his body as he stared at the portrait of ( _himself!_ ) William Hooper, the Fourth Earl of Sherrinford, born 6 January 1772 ( _his own birthday, give or take a century_ ), died 12 October 1867.

The woman standing next to ( _him_ ) the Earl in the portrait wasn't anyone he'd ever seen before, at least not that he was aware of, but he found himself even more hypnotized by her eyes than by the sight of ( _himself_ ) his virtual twin. Her eyes were brown, so large in her face that they would have seemed a caricature if it wasn't for the absolute realism the artist had so carefully created otherwise. _Some women just have large eyes_ , he reminded himself, even as he felt those deep pools of brown - warm, caring, friendly - drawing him further in.

Unlike most husband-and-wife portraits of the era, she wasn't seated, but stood proudly by her husband's side. Lady Margaret Hooper, the plaque read, also naming her date and death dates - born two years later than her husband, but died only a few days after he had. _Died of a broken heart_ , some fanciful part of his mind whispered, but he ignored it; after all, he was a man of logic, only taking this course to fulfill some stupid uni requirement.

"Done staring at yourself?" The jeering voice brought him back to the present, tore his reluctant gaze from those of the knowing brown eyes which, painted or not, seemed to stare directly into his soul.

"I was studying the details of the costumes, Wilkes, but thanks for noticing that the late Earl bears some passing resemblance to me," he drawled, automatically going on the attack, always the best option where Sebastian Wilkes was concerned. "I didn't realize you paid such close attention to my appearance."

He batted his eyes at Wilkes, who made a disgusted sound and slouched off with the rest of his hateful cronies, none of whom would pass this course with anything higher than a C. Well, except for the one who was sleeping with Professor Magnussen, of course. And oh, wouldn't his homophobic mates destroy him if they ever found out!

But before he could decide whether or not that deduction should be shared now or saved for some future point, his eyes were once again drawn to the portrait. The rest of the class had moved on, obediently following their professor as he droned on about something or other, until he was left alone in the gallery, just him and the bored security guard who was contemplating sneaking off for a smoke with only one patron to watch over.

Sherlock wasn't sure what impulse compelled him to pretend to leave the gallery, to trail after his classmates and professor ( _barely competent but blackmailing the department head over something boring that nevertheless could end the woman's career_ ); nor was her sure why he immediately returned as soon as the guard had swanned off to sneak his smoke.

But return he did, staring and staring at the portrait, until suddenly his mind started playing tricks on him; he could have sworn the solemn expression on Lady Margaret's face lightened; that her lips curved up in a ghost of a smile, that her eyes warmed and shifted so she was staring directly at him…and that her hands, clasped demurely in front of her, eased apart and beckoned him closer.

 _Come back to me,_ he thought he heard a woman's voice, soft and loving, whisper in his mind. _Come back to me, my William, my Sherlock. Come back to me, and live the life we were always meant to have together._

Half-hypnotized, he hesitated, torn between moving closer to the portrait and running away as fast as he could, to rejoin his classmates and the tepid life fate had seemed to have mapped out for him working with his brother for the British government.

It was that last thought that moved him toward the portrait rather than away from it; eyes still meeting those of Lady Margaret, whose smile seemed to become wider with each step, her hands - yes, her hands were definitely reaching out, reaching for him, eyes lumionus with eagerness and something he thought might be love, compelling him but not unwillingly to step closer, closer, closer…

He reached up, fingers grazing the lower portion of the frame, set only a few feet above the floor, easy to step up on that edge, to take those hands in his, to join his love, _to go where he truly belonged…_

When the security guard returned to the gallery, looking around guiltily, he was relieved to see it was as empty as when he'd left it. Even that kid that had been staring so hard at the Sherrinford painting had finally sloped off, probably back with the rest of his annoying classmates. He snorted softly; he hated those obnoxious twats, with the snide comments and rude looks toward him. At least this time none of them had tried anything stupid in the name of showing off for their mates.

As he took his position by the gallery doors, his incurious eyes passed over the painting and swept along the others he'd seen so many times.

What he failed to notice, however, was the soft, secret smiles that now graced the lips of the Lord and Lady of Sherrinford.

Sherlock Holmes had found his soulmate, one hundred and fifty years in his past.

* * *

 _End note/epilogue based on some questions OhAine raised over on AO3:_

"So how'd he die, anyway?"

The mother flipped through the pamphlet. "Huh," she said, as the child craned his head up inquisitively. "It says here he was supposedly killed in a duel when he was 20, but then showed up a few days later without a scratch on him. A few days later he was married to Lady Margaret, and they both died of old age after devoting their lives to one another." The mother smiled dreamily at the romance of it all.

"Could've just said old age," the child muttered unappreciatively.


	48. Only Hair

_A/N: A fun little K drabble written in response to a tweet of Louise Brealey and Amanda Abbington - Loo with her hair redder and shorter, and Amanda with her hair dark brown and very short - super cute! You can follow the link on AO3 if you want to see it. Warstan & Sherlolly :)_

* * *

It was for an undercover case, but the changes to the two womens' hair still shocked their significant others when they saw the post-beauty parlor photos Mary texted.

A few seconds later, before either John or Sherlock could respond, another text followed from Molly.

 _It's only hair, boys. It'll grow back._

To which there was only one reply they could possibly make - and fortunately for both men, it was nothing but the truth.

 _You both look fantastic. Can't wait to see you in person._


	49. Truly, Madly, Deeply

_A/N: dragonnan asked for 34. Hurt/Comfort and 53. Mutual Pining (from a list of prompts I've lost track of, whoops!). Rated K+_

* * *

"God dammit, Molly, hold still! You were shot, we need to staunch the bleeding before you die!"

"I am holding still, you great bloody drama queen! The only reason I'm moving around is because you're carrying me while John is trying to patch me up and your stupidly long legs are making it damned difficult!"

"So then," John concluded as Molly and Sherlock gazed at him in complete - and mutual - disbelief, "I got Sherlock to sit his arse down, settle Molly on his lap, and managed to finish the job before the emergency team got there, thus saving both their lives and finally getting them to admit they were both head over heels in love with each other, even though Sherlock thought he'd screwed things up royally after Sherrinford - and Molly thought he'd only said 'I love you' to save her life."

Greg and Sally grinned and raised their pint glasses. "I knew they wouldn't have done it on their own!" "Bout time our resident freak figured out he had feelings for her!"

Sherlock ignored the freak comment, since it was obviously a good-natured jibe rather than a real insult, and instead rounded on John. "Molly did NOT call me a drama queen with stupidly long legs!"

John shrugged and downed a great gulp of his lager. "But you don't deny the whole mutual pining thing, I notice."

Sherlock's ears turned pink. "No comment," he mumbled.

"And I'm sure he didn't say I was dying," Molly added, looking desperately at the grinning Greg and Sally. "You never said I was dying, because it was just a graze, barely needed any stitches once we got the A&E!"

Sherlock put a defiant arm around her, mindful of the healing wound on her upper arm, and placed a tender kiss on her brow. "Now you know why I get so annoyed with John's blog," he told her. "If you ask me, his poetic license…"

"Should be revoked," he and Molly finished in unison, grinning at each other.

Sally looked faintly nauseated. "Oh lord, they're gonna be one of those couples, aren't they - sickeningly sweet and lovey-dovey with each other."

Greg grinned and raised his glass again. "I'll drink to that!"

And he, Sally, and a very pleased John Watson did just that, while Molly blushed and Sherlock tried very hard not to look as besotted as he truly, madly, deeply was.


	50. Back To Bed

_A/N: Rated K and very very fluffy. krish-cross on tumblr asked: Hello mizjoely, love your writing, keep writing well. Also, in your own time, I was hoping you'd write me a fic where sherlock gets sick and molly looks after him. Thankyou_

* * *

"You have a fever, luv so back to bed you go."

"But Moooollly," Sherlock whined in his best imitation of a cranky Rosie Watson, aged three and a half. "I don't wanna." He pointed at the wall over the sofa, upon which he'd pinned the notes and photos for his latest case. "I have to figure this out. Promised Greg I'd have it done before the end of the day."

"No, you _bragged_ to Greg you'd have it done by then," Molly corrected him as she took him gently by the arm and steered him toward his bedroom. " _He_ wasn't hoping for anything sooner than the end of the week. So off to bed with you and no more complaining."

He gave her his best puppy-dog eyes. "Lie down with me?"

Molly gave him a half-exasperated, half-fond grin. "All right, you big baby. But only if you take your medicine first."

"Deal." And the overgrown man-child allowed her to dose him, put him into his most comfortable pajamas, and settled to sleep with her wrapped securely in his arms.


	51. Bare Shoulder

_A/N: Rated K+. musicprincess1990 on tumblr asked (waaay back in Feb 2018, sorry!): Since I accidentally sent my last ask to wifey (who kindly gifted me with a ficlet anyway), here's one for you. How about some shoulder kisses? Not required for said shoulders to be bare, but I certainly won't turn my nose up if they are._

* * *

Her shoulder was bare. Just the left one; the right was still modestly covered by her oversized jumper, but the cowl-neck just would _not_ stay up on that side, as he'd heard her complain a few times. Which was why she only wore it when the rest of her warm tops were in the wash (Molly hated doing laundry, she'd rather scrub toilets and deworm Toby, as she'd also stated more than once) so it always came down to this one jumper.

It was bright and vibrant, a deep turquoise that set off her skin to exquisite, irresistible, glowing perfection.

Especially that oh-so-tempting shoulder.

 _Irresistible,_ Sherlock thought again. _So why even try to resist?_

 _Not going to,_ he assured himself.

Leaning down, he placed a soft kiss on that exact spot.

And Molly sighed and leaned into his embrace.

 _ **Bonus original (more humorous) ending:**_

 _And Molly - his sweet, loving, patient, kind, adorable Molly - glowered at him and swatted him away. "Jesus, Sherlock, you know better than to kiss me in the morgue!"_


	52. The Chair

_A/N: lilsherlockian1975 asked: One word prompt: The Chair - E or M for the rating if possible_

* * *

She loved his chair. It was squishy and comfortable and _almost_ wide enough for two people.

It was that 'almost' that made it perfect; she couldn't sit next to him but she sure as hell could sit _on_ him. Facing him, knees on either side of his (naked) thighs, her skirt hiked around her hips as she rose and fell on his glorious (naked) cock.

"Now this," Sherlock panted as he gazed up at her through half-lidded eyes, his hands gripping her hips, "is the way to make a Hooper-Holmes baby, Molly. You always come up with the best ideas."

She giggled, leaning down to kiss him deeply before saying, "Well, in this position, my dear darling husband, I think YOU'RE the one who'll be 'coming up'."

As he later admitted (and apologized and apologized), telling her "Don't make jokes, Molly" at that particular moment was definitely a mistake - and very likely the reason it took another month of vigorous 'trying' before Hamish Hooper-Holmes was finally conceived.


	53. Beach Holiday

_A/N: Rated T for anonymous on tumblr who asked: Flashfic idea: sherlolly and warstan on a beautiful warm sunny beach somewhere and John, Molly and Mary are trying to talk Sherlock into not loathing it lol_

* * *

"My skin is sensitive. I'm prone to sunburn."

Mary held up the tube of sunscreen and waggled it. "Got you covered." Her eyes crinkled as she added with a grin, "Literally."

"The sun hurts my eyes."

John tossed a pair of Ray-Bans at Sherlock and gestured to the umbrella he and Mary had set up. "Got plenty of shade for you, Vampirella."

Sherlock shot him a confused look while John and his wife tittered like idiots, then tried one last ditch effort. "I forgot my swim trunks."

Just then Molly came sauntering up, unselfconsciously _au naturel_. "Hi all, why haven't the rest of you stripped down yet? Sheesh, I know we're the first ones here but I thought the whole point of coming to Praia do Homem Nu was nude sunbathing?"

Mary and John watched with barely suppressed giggles as Sherlock stripped down to nothing in record time.


	54. Chocolate Factory

_A/N: Rated K drabble. writingwife-83 said: Flash fic idea- sherlolly in a chocolate factory. Maybe sampling. (Idk that's just what popped in my mind lol)_

* * *

"Sherlock," Molly whispered as she trailed alongside her boyfriend at the end of the tour group, "why are we here, again?"

"Five children entered this factory on tour twenty-five years ago," he replied equally quietly. "Only one was ever seen again. The parents and guardians that accompanied them signed some form of non-disclosure agreement and the crime - if crime it was - was never investigated by the local police despite the tour being widely publicized at the time."

He flashed her a grin. "Besides, the Everlasting gobstoppers they give out as souvenirs are absolutely _amazing_."


	55. Night Museum-Sequel to Chocolate Factory

_A/N: Rated K, sequel to Chocolate Factory. juldooz gave this Flash fic request: sherlolly, in a museum?_

* * *

"Let me guess," Molly grumbled as she and Sherlock - whom she'd been involved with for about a year now post Sherrinford - trailed along at the end of the tour group in the history museum. "This is for another case."

He nodded, looking brightly around at the exhibits their guide was loudly describing. "Ten years ago, there was quite the stir at some publicity stunt used to increase membership and donations. A few years later a similar publicity stunt was used at the Smithsonian to equal effect. The same security guard seems to have been involved in both. Since then a valuable gold plaque - Egyptian - and a mummy - also Egyptian - seem to have been mislaid. Security guard is missing as well."

He flashed her an apologetic smile. "Sorry, no free candy at the end of this one, Molly, but maybe we'll receive something even more valuable!"

"Knowledge," she said, rolling her eyes.

"No" Without warning he dropped to one knee and pulled a gorgeous sapphire-and-diamond ring out of his jacket pocket, extending it to her. "A lifetime together. If you'll have me."

As she said yes and flung herself into his arms for a kiss, out of the corner of her eye Molly could have sworn she saw the skeleton of the T-Rex wag its bony tail - but elected to concentrate on her newly minted fiancé instead.


	56. Dis Robe

_holidaysat221b Prompt of the Day - 5/17/19:_ _Molly loves wearing Sherlock's house robes. - mel-loves-all_

 _Rated T for Molly's Naughty Thoughts. Enjoy!_

* * *

She loves the way they feel, so silky and smooth against her skin. She loves the way they drape on her slim figure, the way they trail behind her like a fancy ball gown from a BBC period drama (or a powerful queen in a fantasy universe), making her feel elegant and regal. She loves the way the cuffs fall over her wrists unless she rolls them up into bulky bundles near her elbows (although that never fails to make her giggle, since she immediately goes from 'regal fantasy queen' to 'girl dressing up in mum's clothes').

Mostly, however, she loves the way Sherlock's eyes light up and linger whenever she trips into the kitchen or parlor wearing nothing but one of his luxurious, silky, oversized (and likely overpriced) dressing gowns.

Well. To be honest, she _mostly_ mostly enjoys having him peel them off her so they puddle at her feet, leaving her bare to his hungry gaze - and oh so available to his even hungrier touch.


	57. Didn't See That Coming

_A/N: Rated K+ prompt fill that came out more Feisty Molly than Angst._

 _From janette-chentel on tumblr: Molly to Eurus, "You had no one. I WAS no one."_

* * *

Eurus rolled her eyes. Heavily. "Oh God, you've been spending too much time with my brother, you've caught his Drama Queen Syndrome."

"I've caught more than that," Molly replied heatedly.

Eurus raised an eyebrow. "It can't be an STI, he's only ever had sex once before you–"

She fell silent not because she was deducing or coming up with a devastatingly clever putdown or even because she needed to sneeze: she fell silent because the one thing the era-defining genius never saw coming was the incredibly accurate punch Molly landed on her chin.

When Sherlock and John came bursting in a few seconds later, they were both as floored (figuratively speaking) as Eurus was literally speaking at the sight of the unconscious Sherrinford escapee and the tiny, irate pathologist who was rubbing her bruised knuckles and glaring at the other woman's unconscious form.

"What I've caught, sister-in-law dear," she snarled, "is the ability to shut up any Holmes sibling that pisses me off in the most efficient manner possible."

John busied himself with securing Eurus' wrists behind her back with the pair of purloined handcuffs Sherock tossed at him as he strode over to his wife, took her face in his hands, and commenced snogging the breath out of her.


	58. A Friend In Need

_krish-cross on tumblr asked: Hello, Wanted to give you an ask about a prompt I thought up while studying yesterday. Sherlock does a wonderful job at giving the best man speech at the Watson's wedding but did he get some help from his concerned pathologist. (She does look like a proud teacher during the speech) Thank you for your time._

 _A/N: Rated T for an Naughty Word at the end._

* * *

After Graham and that damned book both failed him, Sherlock did what he should have done in the first place: he texted Molly.

 _Need help. Come immediately if convenient._

Two seconds later he fired off a follow-up.

 _If inconvenient come anyway. Emergency. SOS. Gavin was useless and the book has been turned into kindling._

He paced and fretted the thirty-six seconds it took her to respond.

 _At work right now. Is this one of your games or something? Who's Gavin? What book? I am actually working right now, did I say?_

He huffed out an annoyed breath.

 _Yes, actually, you did. Twice. Doesn't change the fact that you said if I needed you I could have you._

He paused, some instinct causing him to reread the message before hitting send.

 _Doesn't change the fact that I need your help,_ he amended that last sentence to, without asking himself why.

Just as he didn't ask himself why the thought of Mr. Having-Quite-A-Lot-Of-Sex fiance gave him a stomachache.

 _Help with what?_ Molly responded while he tried once again to delete her declaration - the one given when he'd last asked for her help with planning out John's Stag Do - about said stupid, inconvenient, cockbl–no no NO.

 _Help with the best man speech for John and Mary's wedding,_ was all he typed.

 _I'll be over in a tick,_ Molly replied. _Just have to sew up Mr Andrews. Would you like his gallbladder? It's unusually necrotic for someone who was supposedly on a vegan diet_.

He grinned fondly at the message. Molly knew him so well! In fact, for someone who did, indeed, know him so well, it was odd that she hadn't picked up on his fee…

 _Yes, thank you, h_ e typed as rapidly as he could, once again forcing his brain not to finish an uncomfortable thought regarding his…friend, he told himself firmly. Molly Hooper was his friend and nothing more and that was why he was asking for her help.

After all, what other reason could he possibly have for doing so?


	59. Naked Ambitions

_Anonymous on tumblr asked: Prompt: Molly is taking a drawing class and asks Sherlock to be one of her subjects._

 _writingwife-83 answered: Hi, anon! Apologies but I think you misunderstood my reblog of someone else's request for prompts. Maybe another time soon!_

 _I responded with: Mind if I butt in? (Hee hee, 'butt'...ahem. Rated K+.)_

* * *

"Sherlock! What are you doing?" Molly exclaimed, quickly grabbing her sketch pad and holding it in front of her face to shield herself from the unexpectedly naked man now standing in her sitting room.

"Posing for you to draw me?" said naked man responded in a questioning tone. "For your art class?"

"Not THAT kind of an art class!" she exclaimed. "I mean - well, yes, yes it is, but we're not on nudes yet. I just needed you to sit so I could draw your head and shoulders!"

"Ah." Was it possible he sounded…disappointed?

At the sound of fabric rustling, Molly risked a quick peek from around the moleskine and caught a brief glimpse of Sherlock's well-toned behind as he slipped back into his sapphire blue dressing gown.

"On second thought…" she began, lowering the sketch pad so it rested on her lap.

Sherlock's cheeky grin as he turned and once again allowed the silky fabric to slip to the floor told her more than words how happy he was that she'd changed her mind.

And the sight of his toned, nude form was more than inspirational as far as Molly was concerned - in art _and_ in life.

(Especially when he offered to 'pose nude' for her anytime she wanted - for the rest of their lives together, if she so desired.)

(Which she absolutely did.)


	60. It's Always the Quiet Ones

_lilsmolls3 on tumblr said: I know it's closed but if you ever feel the urge to do the Drabble prompt maybe try 30 please?!_

 _Prompt: "You better watch yourself."_

 _Oops I did a sort of swap!lock with Criminal!Molly in a reimagined scene from TRF. Rated a heavy T. I wrote this last year (2018) but it fits pretty well with the other 2 Criminal!Molly fics I wrote (My Criminal Romance) so consider this the precursor to "_ _For the Sake of Law and Order" and its follow-up, "Escape Clause"._

* * *

"Well, this is unexpected."

Sherlock stood by the door to his flat, eyeing the intruder who'd made herself so casually at home in his chair.

Molly looked up from the piece of fruit she'd been paring, a dazzling smile on her lips. "Why Mr. Holmes, surely you're not _actually_ surprised to see me."

"No, I suppose I'm not," he replied, finally moving into the sitting room, careful to close - and lock - the door behind him. "Although I am surprised you've become so formal, Molly. To what do I owe the…honor?"

Instead of answering, she held up the green fruit as if offering it to him. " Quite symbolic, wouldn't you say?" she asked, finally meeting his gaze.

He returned the saccharine smile on her lips with a flat grin of his own. "Yes, I suppose we do make quite the 'pear'," he deadpanned.

She let out a peal of delighted laugher, the giggle-snort at the end just as adorable as it had been before he discovered she was the master criminal he'd been playing cat-and-mouse with for the past six months. Quiet, helpful Molly Hooper, the girl from the morgue, the gifted pathologist with the atrocious clothing sense and even more atrocious sense of humor.

He had absolutely _not_ seen her coming.

She'd vanished after that fraught confrontation at the pool, and his fury at her for threatening John had only been slightly ameliorated by the startling fact that the Semtex vest he'd been wearing had only been a fake. It didn't make up for all the other people she'd killed, but it did show a crack in the giggling-madwoman facade she seemed to favor.

"What do you want, exactly?" he asked as her laughter died down.

"Tea?" she asked, an expression of exaggerated innocence on her face.

"I'm not in the habit of serving tea to murderers," he countered, fighting to keep his eyes on hers as she leaned forward. Her navy blue dress hugged her figure, the scoop-neck low enough to show off the top curves of her breasts, the skirt short enough that he caught more than a glimps of her slender, shapely legs.

He blinked and ordered his brain to focus as she responded to his words.

"And yet you serve tea to John Watson almost every day." Molly's grin was dazzling, her eyes dark with equal parts mirth and malice. She was wearing more makeup than he was used to seeing on her, subtly and effectively applied to play up her best features. "His hands are hardly clean. And don't tell me you wouldn't put a bullet into an enemy to protect him. D'you know, it was so much fun pretending I didn't remember his name that one time in the lab. You remember it, right? When I introduced you to my new 'boyfriend' - brother, actually, a very gifted actor - and you so kindly deduced he was gay?"

Sherlock couldn't take it, not a second longer. Not when she was pushing every one of his buttons where she - or rather, where the Molly Hooper he'd thought he'd known - was concerned. "What. Do. You. Want?" he ground out.

She set down the pear and stood up. "I want you to stop, Sherlock. It's been fun, but if it keeps up, one of us will end up dead, and I do so hate going to funerals." She stepped closer, slid one hand up the lapel of his suit jacket. "Wouldn't it be so much better if we were on the same side?" she murmured, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

He stepped away, fighting to keep his expression impassive. "You know that's never going to happen, unless you suddenly grow a conscience, renounce your evil ways, and throw yourself on the mercy of the law."

She laughed again, doing a slow clap of appreciation. "Well, it was worth a try. Too bad you're on the side of the angels, Sherlock; the other side is much more fun."

"I may be on the side of the angels, Molly, but don't for one second mistake me for one," he growled. "I do believe you've outstayed your welcome, see yourself out, you know the way." He deliberately turned his back on her, knowing full well that if she wanted to she could throw the wickedly sharp knife she held straight into his back.

As he moved toward the mantle her heard her give a soft sigh. "Right, then, off I pop. Keep an eye out for me in the news, you'll know why when you see it."

Her cheerful voice, the same one he'd heard so many times in the morgue and path lab at Bart's, was too much. Whirling around, he snapped, "You'd better watch yourself."

Molly smirked over her shoulder, going so far as to offer a saucy wink in response. "Why should I, Sherlock, when you do such a fantastic job of doing it for me?" She deliberately arched her back, stretching her arms above her head before dropping them back to her sides. He tracked every movement, as she'd clearly expected; what wasn't expected, however, was the way he lunged toward her, pulling her into his arms and kissing her ferociously.

Her lips were soft, warm, mobile beneath his; her tongue met his fearlessly as she wrapped her arms around him. He held her close, tight to his body, his arms like iron bands around her waist as he finally caved into the attraction he'd been fighting since the very first day they'd met, nearly five years ago.

They ended up pressed against the door, clothing disheveled, faces flushed, lips kiss-swollen and hair more than a bit mussed.

It was the sound of footsteps on the stairs that brought him back to his senses; with a bitten-off curse, he released her. "Go," he said lowly, pointing to the kitchen with its second door to the hall landing.

She tiptoed up and kissed him softly, wiping away the smears of lipstick with her thumb as she gave a small nod. "Till next time, Sherlock."

By the time John got the door unlocked and made his grumbling way into the flat, Molly had slipped away and Sherlock was standing by the desk, violin in hand, watching through the window until he saw her on the pavement below. She paused, looked up briefly as if feeling his eyes on her, and smiled before entering the taxi that stopped at her hail.

It was with both dread and anticipation that he waited for her next move.


	61. Open Your Eyes

_juldooz on tumblr said: Sherlolly for the ask list [kisses]: being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward_

 _Rated K+, enjoy!_

* * *

"It's OK, I promise I won't vanish or, or turn into a pumpkin if you open them."

Sherlock blinked - once, twice - then allowed his eyes to open fully and meet those of Molly Hooper. _Such a warm brown,_ he found himself thinking, _how have I never noticed how beautiful they were before?_

 _Because before it would have been too dangerous to notice that,_ some inner voice reminded him. It didn't sound like John or Mycroft or anyone else who normally populated his mind palace, and it took him unsettlingly long to realize it was his _own_ voice he was hearing. Huh. How strange.

"Didn't I tell you once not to make jokes?" The words were out before he could stop them; would she understand that they weren't meant to be as harsh as they sounded?

She dimpled and stroked her fingers along his shoulders. "Once. But I ignored you then and I'm ignoring you now." Her fingers wandered up to his neck, to his cheeks, and she raised herself on tiptoes to gently rub her nose against his. "See how much I'm ignoring you, Sherlock?"

"Oh do please keep ignoring me, Molly Hooper, just like that," he breathed, then gave into temptation and kissed her again, reveling in the feel of her soft, soft lips beneath his.

And when he opened his eyes, she'd neither vanished nor turned into a pumpkin and he knew he need never fear either possibility - however fanciful - ever again.


	62. A Kiss Before

_stlgeekgirl asked: I love you MizJoely! Thank you. Either one of these would be lovely. a hoarse whisper "kiss me" Or then licks their lips and says "please"_

 _mizjoely answered: This turned into a Victorian Reichenbach AU because I was just rereading one of my other Victorian ficlets. Hope you like it (and sorry it took a whole year for me to get to the prompt)! Rated K+_

* * *

"Kiss me," he breathed, his voice a hoarse whisper. He licked his lips and added, "Please."

How could she possibly refuse such a request, coming as it did from the lips of the man she'd longed to kiss ever since their first meeting at St. Bartholomew's hospital? How could she ever deny Mr. Holmes anything, anything at all? Certainly nothing so simple - and yet so fraught, she knew - as a kiss.

Not on this night, of all nights. The night before he left London in the company of Doctor Watson, all in the mad chase to bring Professor Moriarty - her one-time suitor, oh false man! - to justice.

Or, perchance, to his end. Either way she would not mourn his loss.

She licked her lips, realizing she'd spent far too many precious seconds pondering what would come on the morrow rather than concentrating on what was happening now, in her private chambers. The servants had been dismissed for the week, not unusual for her; they were alone and she was surely compromised should anyone happen upon them but even if such an unlikely event were to occur - even if her mother should suddenly appear at her door, back from her own recent sojourn to the Continent - she would not care.

Slowly, carefully, she raised herself up on her toes, balanced mainly by her hold on Sherlock's hands, and pressed her lips softly against his.

He let out a soft sigh, nearly a moan, and moved his lips beneath hers. Returning the kiss with hesitance at first, but slowly growing bolder, more desperate, as she opened her mouth to his.

When the kiss was finished she found herself in his arms, her head tilted back; she opened her eyes with a sigh and gazed up at him, daring to raise a hand and slide it tenderly along his cheek. "Be safe," she whispered.

His smile was close to its cheeky norm but she could see the underlying sadness beneath the curl of his lips. "Never," he declared, brushing away a few strands of hair that had somehow escaped from her night-braid. "But I will endeavor to return to you, if only to claim another kiss."

He released her, allowing her to step away as he strode across her room and opened the windows overlooking the bit of garden the townhouse had to offer. He hesitated on the sill; she clutched her hands beneath her chin and drew in a breath as their eyes met. "Be safe, Molly Hooper."

Then he was gone, and she sat numbly on the edge of her bed, with only one resolve in her heart and mind: to be ready to bestow that second kiss upon his lips as soon as he returned, no matter how much time might pass.


	63. The Case of the Missing Detective

_Anonymous asked: Prompt: "Ah Molly to what do I owe the pleasure?" "Sherlock I have a case for you"_

 _Rated T, enjoy!_

* * *

"Indeed?" His eyebrow raised as questioningly as his tone. He stepped closer until she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. "And what might this case be?"

"The case of the missing consulting detective," Molly replied, her tone quite serious even as her fingers toyed with his jacket lapels. "It seems my husband has been busy with a case - so busy he barely comes home and spends much of his time at his 221B Baker Street office - and I miss him desperately."

"Hmm, there's nothing for it, then," Sherlock replied, just as seriously. "Your husband must be located and immediately chastised for neglecting his husbandly duties."

"You've solved it, then?" Molly asked, fingers moving to the buttons of his tight aubergine shirt.

"Just this morning, point of fact." With those words, Sherlock's face split into a huge grin. "As you already know or you wouldn't have disturbed me. John texted you, did he?"

Molly grinned back. "Yup," she replied, stealing his habit of obnoxiously popping the p. "He said you were still wrapping up a few bits and bobs but that you could certainly use a distraction." She wrinkled her nose. "And a shower."

She shrieked with laughter as he swept her up into his arms and strode down the hall toward the bath. "Oh he said that, did he? Well then, Mrs. Holmes, a shower I shall have - but only if you join me. Mrs. Hudson!" he added in a bellow, "no visitors no matter how urgent!"

"Not your PA," came floating up the stairs but neither Molly nor Sherlock heard a word of it, far too engrossed in kissing - and undressing - one another to notice anything else.


	64. Wait What Just Happened

_holidaysat221b Prompt of the Day - 8/21/19_

 _To cover her butt during New Year's Eurus lies and tells mummy that Sherlock has a wife, and Mycroft borrows her 'Sherlock's wife' excuse whenever he wants to avoid sticky topics during holidays. The lie gets bigger the more Sherlock avoids family meetings. Until December when Sherlock finds out he's married to a forensic (E), sex addicted(E), petite (E), intelligent (M), very forgiving (M) paragon of virtue (M). Now he needs to find a stranger that fits the description before Christmas. - escaily_

 _A/N: This is absolutely a Wacky Romantic Comedy AU where Eurus is peculiar but not homicidal and Sherlock hasn't (yet) met John. Rated a light T due to mentions of S-E-X._

* * *

"Look, Molly, I know we've just met..."

"Sherlock, we met six months ago," Molly interrupted him, her mouth set in a flat line even he recognized as Not Good. "Nice to know I'm so memorable."

He raked agitated fingers through his hair. "No, that's not - to me, that is 'just met'," he tried to explain, his words coming in a rush. "I've known Gavin for close to ten years and I just started calling him my friend," he added, hoping that would help.

Judging by the twitching of her lips and the brief appearance of a dimple, it did. "If you mean Greg Lestrade, then okay, by your standards we've just met. By _my_ standards, a man starting off a sentence like that is about to ask me out, but since I _have_ known you for six months - and you blew me off the one time I tried to ask you out for coffee - I know that's not actually the case. So." She took a breath. "What do you need me to do? Sneak you out unauthorized body parts? Let you use the lab unsupervised? Just get it over with and I'll tell you yes or no."

"You'd tell me yes no matter what," he contradicted her, the words popping out, much to his horror, before he could stop them. "Sorry!" he yelped as she glowered at him. He held his hands up in a beseeching manner. "That was...that just sort of...happened."

"And it's true," she agreed resignedly. "So just...spit it out, Sherlock. What do you need?"

"You." That time he was absolutely certain he'd said the right thing, even if Molly's eyes just sort of got huge and round and her lips opened as if to emphasize her startlement. Feeling a bit more on solid ground, he took a step forward, focusing entirely on her. "Molly, I think I'm going to die." When he expression turned to alarm, he backtracked. "If I don't show up at my parent's house this Christmas with my forensic sex addicted, petite, intelligent, very forgiving paragon of virtue of a wife - which, I might add, my brother and sister managed to dream up, those are their descriptions not mine - it's very possible my mother will actually murder me. And get her former MI6 friends to help her get away with it," he added in a mutter.

Clearly Molly was going to need some time to process what he'd just said; any fool could read it in her body language and he might not be the most socially graceful man but Sherlock Holmes was certainly not a fool. Carefully he took her elbow and guided her toward the nearest stool, not releasing her until she was securely seated.

Almost a full minute passed before she spoke, and her voice was so calm he felt a very false sense of reassurance. (He'd learn to interpret that deadly calm in years to come but not until well after they were actually married.)

"Let me get this straight. Your sister and brother - nice to know you have siblings, by the way, not to mention parents since you've never mentioned family ever - made up a fake wife for you and told your parents about her - and, what? You just went along with it?"

He nodded eagerly. "Yup, essentially. But I've avoided a full year of family gatherings and, well, now Mummy's put her foot down. She wants to meet this time-consuming wife of mine, and, well, you fill the bill. Except perhaps the sex addicted bit," he added somewhat doubtfully. "I've deduced that you enjoy sex and have had quite a bit of it in your past but recently you seem to have been in a bit of a dry spe- hang on," he interrupted himself as something she'd said finally percolated back to his frontal lobe. "You asked me out for coffee? When?"

"The day you were beating that corpse," she replied. "I asked you if you'd like some coffee and you gave me your order and left."

"Oh. Right. That was you asking me out." He shook his head. "Molly, you really have to be more clear when you're asking someone out

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!" Molly didn't quite shout, but she certainly raised her voice to a forceful level as she hopped to her feet and glared up at him. "My sex life is none of your business! And besides, if I am in a dry spell - which I'm not saying I am! - it's all your fault!"

He stared at her in outrage. "My fault? How can it possibly have been my fault?"

"Because every single time someone nice chats me up you manage to spoil it with your stupid deductions!" she hissed, poking him in the chest. Hard.

He narrowed his eyes and refused to take the step back his instincts kept trying to urge him to do. Instead, he moved closer. Take that, instincts! Intellect wins every time, he told himself smugly, even as he opened his mouth and managed to shove both size 11s into it at the same time. "My deductions are NOT stupid," he said in his most obnoxious tones. "Unlike the men you seem attracted to," he added with a sneer. "Is it my fault they're all idiots or petty criminals?"

Her face reddened. "So which are you, then?" she retorted. "An idiot or a petty criminal?"

That shut him up, although he felt his mouth gaping open as he struggled for a retort. Something to put her completely in her place. Which place being 'work colleague who I am absolutely not attracted to at all and whose attempts at dating positively do NOT make me jealous'.

The triumphant little smirk on her lips was what did it, he realized later, although at the time he was in no mental condition to reason anything else. All he could think about was how much he wanted to wipe that smirk from her lips - and that the best way of doing so, his instincts and his intellect both insisted, was to do what he did.

He kissed her.

When the kiss ended - with her very effectively taking over and kissing him back in ways that made him feel rather…funny…she stepped back and slapped him. "Never kiss without asking first," she snapped. "At least when we're not play-acting for your family at Christmas. And I expect a really lovely wedding set, not something you buy on the cheap. Something classy, and no blood diamonds, I like…"

"Other gems such as rubies and emeralds, better, yes, I know," Sherlock snapped back, still rubbing at his cheek. "Something that _you'll_ wear rather than _it_ wearing _you_ , got it. I'll pick you up after your shift ends and take you to Tiffany's although I suspect we'll find something more to your taste at Alex Monroe Jewellery in Bermondsey. But best to start at Tiffany's and work our way backwards, yes, all right. I'll see you at four."

"Ten after, I'll need to clean up a bit, I'm not walking into a high end jewellery store smelling of the morgue," she called after him. He gave a brief nod but continued through the swinging doors, stopping once he was in the corridor and staring back the way he'd just come, feeling as if he'd been stomped on by an elephant.

What the _hell_ had just happened?

And why was he…smiling?

"One of life's little mysteries," he muttered to himself, very unconvincingly. Then he shook himself a little, got himself back into his usual aloof headspace, and strode down the corridor as if he owned the place.

Christmas was going to be much more interesting - and fun! - than he'd expected. And, he thought with a definite sense of glee, he couldn't WAIT to see Euri and Mykie's faces when he showed up with Molly on his arm!


	65. Without A Clue

_Written for Molly Hoopoer Appreciation Weeks Fall 2019, Day 1 - Fake Relationship (where Molly pretends to date someone) / Secret Relationship (where the relationship Molly is in is kept secret for some reason) / Clueless Dating (where Molly and/or her SO don't realize they're dating but everyone else does)._

 _Rated K, hope you enjoy!_

* * *

"So let me get this straight," Molly said slowly. "For a case, you need me to pretend we're dating." Sherlock nodded. "But because of the nature of the case, I have to be a secret fake girlfriend. As in, the suspect needs to think he's discovered our secret relationship because he's a blackmailer who specializes in people who have secret relationships."

"Exactly!" Sherlock beamed at her approvingly. "It's perfect!"

Molly eyed him suspiciously, having the feeling she was missing something.. "Why is it perfect, exactly?"

He gave her a look of what she interpreted as fond exasperation. "Because, Molly, we can continue to keep our actual relationship a secret, just as you want us to! Afterwards we can just tell everyone it was just for the case - well, I suppose we should tell John beforehand, he does tend to rant when I 'keep things from him'." He made little air quotes as Molly continued to stare at him, utterly flabbergasted. He bit his lip and peered anxiously at her. "Unless," he continued, more slowly, with an expression of doubt creeping into his eyes, "you'd rather not? I mean, yes, it will entail hand-holding and dancing and some light kissing, and I know we agreed that you should set the pace but to be honest I've been getting a bit impatient and I thought this fake secret relationship would allow us to test out the more, erm, physical aspects without the pressure of actually-"

Molly finally found her voice. "Sherlock!" she exclaimed, staring at him wide-eyed. "Slow down, I just...are you trying to tell me you think we've actually been dating? For real?"

He frowned. "No, not dating," he corrected her crossly. "In a relationship, yes, but not dating. Or at least, not dating dating. Not until this ball thingy Friday next." His frown deepened. "Are you saying you won't go with me? You're not ready for that next step?"

She couldn't help it; she laughed as she stepped closer and flung her arms round his neck. "Sherlock, you daft man," she said as she tiptoed up so she could rub her nose against his, "one of these days you'll have to remember to use your words, all right? Not just go into one of your buffering modes and then emerge a few minutes later thinking you've spoken aloud when you actually haven't."

He blinked down at her, his expression now utterly confounded. "I - did I do that? I haven't done that since John asked me to be his best man, have I?"

"A few times, but those other times I was able to work it out pretty quickly," she told him, still grinning. It wasn't every day she got to confuse Sherlock Holmes, after all, and she was very glad to have managed it today. Without a second thought, she pulled his face down, still on the tips of her toes, and murmured, "I'd love to be your fake secret girlfriend, Sherlock, you clueless git!" Then she kissed him, and by the eager way he responded, she suspected their slow-going 'relationship' (which only he'd been aware of, although come to think of it, Greg and Mrs. Hudson had made some comments she'd have to rethink at some future point) would soon be on the fast-track.


End file.
